


The Self-Unseeing

by small_but_mighty



Category: Les Misérables (2012), Les Misérables - All Media Types, Les Misérables - Victor Hugo
Genre: Alternate Universe - Library, Alternate Universe - Modern Setting, Amnesia, Eyepatch, Loss of Identity, M/M, Memory Loss, Mystery, Precognition, Seeing the future, Slow Build
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2017-02-24
Updated: 2017-06-01
Packaged: 2018-09-26 16:50:42
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 6
Words: 59,884
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/9912041
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/small_but_mighty/pseuds/small_but_mighty
Summary: Working as a librarian involves little effort or responsibility according to Grantaire. Therefore, it suits him perfectly.However, this is all disrupted when an impatient stranger arrives at his desk with no memory of his past and only a handwritten list of non-events and a bandage over his left eye as clues.And as if that wasn't weird enough, the stranger has an uncanny ability to predict what will happen next.





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

> Hello all.
> 
> This story is a mystery, of sorts, that will unfold as the characters progress so there are a lot things I haven't described or tagged yet as it will defeat the point. I suppose I should warn you that when I say this is a library AU what I really mean is that it starts in a library but has very little to do with referencing and scanning bar-codes, and a lot to do with strange occurrences and uncovering the truth. 
> 
> As always a huge thanks to [lorriesherbet](https://archiveofourown.org/users/lorriesherbet) for being my wonderful beta. The title is from a poem by Thomas Hardy that has somehow stuck with me since I was 14 (ironically just the title). 
> 
> I hope you enjoy!

When Grantaire had been asked what he had wanted to be when he grew up, librarian had not been high on the list. However, this was not to say he didn’t like the job. It was unglamorous and not particularly well paid but it suited him. Certainly, he didn’t wake up of a morning full of a burning passion to get to work but honestly he couldn’t remember the last time he had a burning passion for anything.  

Mainly the job involved sitting around, filing, reading, occasional napping and sshhing people. Grantaire enjoyed all of these things to varying degrees. He was always the only one on duty aside from the archivist upstairs so he got to run the place as he saw fit. Today, and generally most days, he saw fit to run it with a hands off approach. He was a firm believer that the library possessed a delicate ecosystem that, like most ecosystems, benefited from minimal human intervention. Essentially, if no one came in and disrupted it then all would be well.

Thankfully it was not a very busy library and hence why the job suited Grantaire.

He sat nestled behind his library desk and surveyed his kingdom. It was a Tuesday just after lunch, so the kids were still at school and there was no threat of grubby hands or dumbed down conversations. He sized up the middle-aged woman perusing the thrillers. She looked harmless enough so it was safe to delve back into his own book.

Unfortunately this small blessing only lasted the time it took to read two and a half pages.

“Excuse me?” A male voice cut into his awareness from beyond the desk.

“Hang on,” Grantaire said, hurriedly trying to get to the end of the paragraph.

The voice huffed and said, “Do you always read on the job?”

“It’s a library,” Grantaire replied, making a point of continuing to read.

“So, if you worked as a waiter it would be okay to eat instead of serving customers?” the voice grouchily reasoned.

Grantaire pointedly flipped the book shut and looked up at the intruder, ready with a retort. As soon as he saw the man he was immediately silenced. He wasn’t certain what to make of the young man before him. Two things were apparent; firstly, he was extremely attractive and secondly, the bandage over his left eye did not detract from this.

The result was that Grantaire just stared.

“Well?” The man said. “Are you going to help me or not?”

“Um, I guess so, then,” Grantaire muttered with little fight. He couldn’t decide if he was more softened by the man’s appearance or injury. The bandages were carefully taped over the eye and looked fresh and professionally applied. “What do you need?”

Without preamble the man presented him with a list in block capitals and said, “Does this mean anything to you?”

Grantaire wanted to object but he glanced over the page.

  * Lamarque murder
  * Shooting outside River Café
  * Valjean loses election
  * Thenardier pays Montparnasse to cover up corruption
  * Joly fractures tib/fib



Grantaire surveyed the list. At least half of it was meaningless to him. He handed it back.

“Well?” The man said again.

“It’s certainly one hell of a shopping list you have there,” Grantaire offered. He wasn’t sure what else was required of him.

The man sighed and asked, “Do you recognise any of the names?”

Grantaire wanted to immediately say no and send the man away so he could read in peace but the paper was thrust back at him. He looked again, with exaggerated exasperation so the stranger knew how much of an effort it was for him.

Some of the names were familiar, “Well, isn’t Valjean running for Mayor of London?”

The guy leaned over the desk and peered at the page. The action encroached a little too much upon what Grantaire considered the ‘staff only’ area. He asked, “Is he? It says he lost the election.”

Grantaire shrugged, “Different election? Different Valjean?”

The blonde nodded and materialised a notepad and pen which he proceeded to intently write into. “What else?”

Grantaire found himself very confused but looked again, “Lamarque? I think he’s also a politician. Not sure. But I saw in the paper that he was making some speech the other day. Has he been murdered since then? Or murdered someone?”

The man screwed up his face in concentration and let out an exasperated groan, “I don’t know. I can’t remember. It’s not familiar at all. I ought to know who is running for Mayor.” He snatched back the sheet of paper and frowned down at it.

“Where did you even get this list, anyway?”

The man distractedly replied, “On my arm.”

Grantaire stared at him, increasingly certain that the man was crazy. If only libraries had those built in alarms to the police like they had in banks.

“Okay, well-“

“Thank you for your help.” And with that the man swept straight back out of the library.

 _Problem solved,_ Grantaire thought as he picked up his book with a satisfied shrug. Another happy customer it would seem.

***

The intruder soon proved to be an exceedingly unhappy customer indeed. He returned two days later, a flurry of open irritation and unkempt curls.

“Can you believe the people in this town? Utterly unwilling to help with simple inquiries,” the man asked as he stood at the desk and rifled through his coat pockets. Grantaire most certainly could believe it, looking down longingly at his book.

“What is the problem now?” He asked, fearing the oncoming insanity.

“Well, believe it or not you have been the most helpful person so far.” He looked fleetingly at Grantaire, “So, I have to ask you some more questions-. Ah-ha” He finally prized the notepad out and began flicking through the pages.

“Wow. You really know how to flatter a guy,” Grantaire drawled.

“Good,” was all he said before asking, “Do you know who Joly is?

“I’m a librarian not the town record keeper.”

“Aren’t they the same thing?”

“Err, not exactly.”

“Fine. Do you know them or not?”

“No,” Grantaire huffed. He did not get paid enough for this madness.

“Okay. What about Montparnasse?”

“Sorry, no.”

“Fine. And do you know where the River Café is?”

Grantaire frowned, it was a popular café in the centre of town. “Do you really need to be told that?”

“Well if there is going to be a shooting there then I need to know how to get there.”

It all seemed a bit too suspicious. “Do you hear yourself?”

The man scowled and the un-bandaged eye roved about in exasperation. “Yes. I obviously don’t want there to be a shooting. How do you stop a thing if you can’t locate it?”

“Tell the police?”

“With all the corruption? Not likely. I can’t rely on them to do the right thing. You saw the list,” the man flapped the now dog-eared sheet of paper. “Politicians are being murdered. Bribery, fixed voting and corruption.”

“All based on something your arm told you?” The term fanatic was beginning to start flitting about in his mind.

The man sighed and looked about as if a second, more amenable librarian might appear at any moment. He finally said, “Fine. Do you have computers here?”

“Yes.” Grantaire jumped at the idea of fobbing the man off onto a helpless machine. “Right this way.” He led the stranger to the row of computers at the back wall. “Here. All you have to do is type in the number on your library card and-“

“Oh, for God’s sake!” The man exclaimed. “Do you honestly think I have a library card?”

“Look. Now I know that the library is an ailing institution with eBooks and the like but there is really no need for taking that tone-“

“It’s not the library. I love libraries. It’s, well,” he faltered, took a steadying sigh. “Sorry. I forgot my card.”

Grantaire was somewhere between amused and irritated that someone who was such a colossal pain in the arse had said ‘I love libraries’ in such earnest. This guy was clearly such a nerd.

“Okay,” he said, a beacon of patience in the face of adversity. “Not a problem.” He led the guy back to the desk, briskly getting behind it and back to a degree of normality. “If you just give me your name I can look you up on the system and get the number for you.”

The guy stood at the desk and stared helplessly at Grantaire. He shuffled about and fiddled with the notepad.

Grantaire waited expectantly.

The guy left him waiting for some time.

Grantaire slowly asked, “Is there a reason you can’t tell me your name?”

The guy glared at Grantaire like it was frankly the most ridiculous suggestion and then fidgeted about some more.

Finally he said, “I don’t remember it.”

“You don’t remember your name?”

The guy cracked, as though someone comprehending this was both a relief and a disaster. He ran his fingers through his hair and began to pace up and down the counter, spinning elegantly and somehow also aggressively on his heel.

Grantaire watched him like a cat would watch a Newton’s cradle, tracking the movement. What did you say to that? _Sorry to hear it, buddy, have a complimentary bookmark._

The guy stopped and held his own face between his hands, as though trying to conjure the memories.

Tentatively, Grantaire said, “Don’t you think that might be a bigger issue than this list?”

“Well, obviously,” the stranger snapped. “But the contents of that list is all I have to go on. If I can find those people maybe I could get some answers.”

“So, you had nothing else on you?”

“Just these clothes and the list.”

“Okay.” Grantaire quickly tried to think. This was most definitely not something he had been trained for. Why must a public library be public and let in all the crazies? “There must be something else you can go on. I mean, you speak English and you know what a computer is and you have opinions on things like libraries so you recognise objects and places.”

The stranger thought on this and then said, “True but I don’t recognise _this_ library. Maybe I’ve been here before but maybe not. In fact, I recognise nothing in this town and no one seems to recognise me.” He frowned and then relented, “That is a good point though. I know _about_ things. I understand the context of everything but I have no personal reference points. No names for anything. I only realised the name of this town when someone told me.”

The man stood and considered. Grantaire asked, “What about general knowledge?”

“What do you mean?”

“You don’t know the name of a couple politicians but do you have general knowledge beyond naming objects?”

“Ask me something?”

“Who is the prime minister?”

The man shook his head sorrowfully.

“Name a South American country.”

“Brazil.” The man seemed surprised and continued, “Chile, Argentina, Peru, Ecuador.”

“Okay so you know about some stuff. What is the plot of _The Count of Monte Cristo_?”

 “Edmond Dantès is wrongfully imprisoned for 21 years and-“

“Okay,” Grantaire stopped. “I think that’s a pass. Who wrote it?”

“Alexandre Dumas.”

“Who is he?”

The man stared. “I, I don’t know. I suppose he was French, it was originally in French.” He paused and added, “I speak French.”

“Well, that’s a small break through. Are you French? You don’t have a French accent.”

“I don’t know,” he glanced about and suddenly said, “I have to go.”

And yet again Grantaire was left at his desk wondering what on earth he was supposed to make of his afternoon.

***

Unsurprisingly, the stranger returned, this time on Monday morning. He was belligerent.

“What days do you work?”

“Excuse me?” Grantaire startled from his mid-morning, congratulatory coffee he liked to reward himself for making it into work post-weekend.

“I came on Saturday and you weren’t here,” the stranger grumbled as he unloaded his notepad, pen and a savoury croissant onto the desk.

“I don’t live here you know. Did you think I slept in the kids section amongst the bean bags or something?”

The stranger scowled and said, “I don’t know what I thought. I can’t remember where I live so it sounds perfectly reasonable to me.”

Grantaire hadn’t thought of that and startled, “Are you sleeping rough?” He surveyed the blond but he appeared clean and was in fact wearing a totally different outfit today. A primary red coat and a pair of black jeans, both looked brand new.

“No. For your information, a very nice nurse at the hospital is letting me sleep in her family’s boarding house until I can work out who I am and how to repay her.” Grantaire couldn’t deny that that was indeed rather nice.

“Did she give you those clothes?”

“Yes. She has been very kind,” the stranger said with a hint of scolding.

“Are you actually pissy with me because I had two consecutive days off?”

The man sighed, “No. But the weekend librarian is even more disinterested than you are.”

“Jesus, she must be god-awful,” Grantaire concluded. “Why don’t you ask your nurse to help you?”

“She doesn’t have the time or resources. She works shifts. Now, will you be here tomorrow?”

Grantaire wearily replied, “I work too. I’m at work now, funnily enough. And, yes, unfortunately.”

The man ignored the tone and airily said, “Good.”

“If you stuck around instead of storming out after every epiphany you might be able to get things done without having to keep coming back, you know. I won’t turf you out after a certain time.” Grantaire very much wished he could. In fact, he would very much like not to have to help at all but if he could get it all over and done with today, then tomorrow would be a great deal more enjoyable.

“That’s…generous,” the man deadpanned. He then resumed as though Grantaire hadn’t spoken, “I have made some discoveries. I do speak French and I might be French but I don’t know. I spoke to a French lady at the boarding house and she said my accent in French sounded like I am a native speaker. Also, I think I know general knowledge things but only when asked directly and I don’t seem to know anything in reference to a timeline. Dates are meaningless until you tell me the significance. It doesn’t make a lot of sense but it is as though everything meaningful and personal prior to last Sunday has been erased.”

“Does this have something to do with the bandage?” Grantaire figured that it was just easier to jump down the rabbit hole than argue with the guy. Besides, it was about time he mentioned the elephant in the room.

Now reminded, the guy picked at the tape around the bandage. It had been changed since last week. “I think so. I woke up in hospital and my eye was damaged.”

“So, this is probably all due to a head injury. Makes a lot of sense.”

 “I suppose so but it’s strange, they said I had always had a defect with it even before the injury. I don’t remember,” the guy twiddled the pen between his fingers in what must have been an anxious habit.    

“Have they put you onto a therapist or is it customary for amnesia patients to be referred to the local librarian? Man, those NHS cuts are getting close to the bone.”

“NHS?”

“National Health Service. The reason your treatment was free.”

“Oh, right. That’s fortunate. I have no idea how I would have paid.” Grantaire watched as the guy carefully wrote ‘ _NHS-National Health Service. Cost cuts. Look into_.’ He then continued, “In answer to your question, they don’t really know what to do with me. They don’t have a name. They don’t even know if I’m native to this country so I think just treated me as an emergency.”

Grantaire had forgotten he had asked something, already onto another train of thought, “Question. Why did you write that?”

“What?”

“About the NHS and to look into it?”

The guy regarded the page thoughtfully, a curl escaping from behind his ear and falling onto his face. “I’m not sure,” he eventually replied. “It seemed important. Are you suggesting that it is a clue?”

“Well, if I had a head injury, amnesia and free healthcare, I would be like ‘sweet, free healthcare but hey fingers crossed I’m rich anyway when I remember’. Here you are worrying about the costs being cut to something you didn’t even know existed.”

“It’s something to worry about. Nothing is more important than healthcare,” the man said firmly, tucking the run-away curl back in place.

“Sure, sure.” Grantaire waved a hand flippantly since he couldn’t be bothered with a discussion on the government’s distribution of funds. “What are you gonna do now?”

The guy sighed heavily and mournfully said, “I honestly don’t know. I can’t do anything until I work out who I am and this list is all I have.”

Grantaire looked at the guy, standing there with his injured eye, his loaned clothes and his lone croissant that clung to a heritage he may not even possess. Grantaire felt bad for the guy, it went against his better judgement but he did. The guy was cantankerous and probably crazy. He was the thorn in the side of Grantaire’s peaceful work environment.

But Grantaire was a sucker for a pretty face.

“Fine,” he muttered. “Fine, fine. Come back tomorrow afternoon, towards the end of my shift. I finish at 5.30, so say an hour or two before. I’ll help you research.”

How a guy with a two inch square of medical bandage covering half his face could look so perfect while smiling was also something Grantaire would need to research. Thankfully it only lasted a moment before being replaced by an intent look as the guy wrote something down.

“Here,” he handed it over. It was a copy of the list written in tiny, block capitals. “Have a copy, so you can get started if you have a chance.” _Not likely,_ Grantaire thought.

“Is that your normal handwriting?”

 “Yes. Why?”

“It’s like you’re trapped in a well, calling loudly for help but it is still coming out really small.”

The man frowned and rolled the visible eye, “I will accept your criticism since you have been so generous in agreeing to help me.”

“Err, okay. You’re welcome, I guess.”

“I will see you on Thursday,” the guy said as he repacked his croissant into a pocket. Grantaire wondered why it had even been removed in the first place. A sympathy prop, probably.

“I said come tomorrow.”

“You won’t be here though.”

“I said I would be. I always work Tuesdays,” Grantaire insisted.

“I,” he faltered. “I just- I had this- Okay, we’ll see.” The stranger shrugged and headed to the door, as he got to the threshold he called, “Thank you, again.”

Grantaire returned a stilted wave. He knew the guy had amnesia but, _jeez_ , no shouting in the library.

***

That night Grantaire developed a sore throat.

The following morning it developed into a fully blown temperature, with headache and coughing.

He had to call in sick.

He remained ill for two days and only by Thursday did he feel well enough to venture to work. Thankfully librarian was a low stress role with little physical activity.

The whole time he was ill he fixated on the stranger’s parting words.

***

A combination of still feeling worse for wear and being convinced that he had been poisoned by a one-eyed, amnesiac angel resulted in Grantaire being in a foul mood. When he hadn’t seen the culprit by lunchtime he hoped the guy was too ashamed to show his pretty face.

Naturally it was wishful thinking.

Come 16.00 the guy waltzed in and up to the desk, his usual blend of entitlement and determination. Grantaire’s annoyance was only slightly quelled by the fact that the bandage had been replaced by a small black eyepatch. He wanted to point and laugh, possibly make a couple of pirate jokes, but irritation and the burden of adulthood soon put a stop to that.

“What the fuck is wrong with you?” he gruffly asked the guy as he approached.

The blond startled, “Um, I’m fine. I was going to ask you, actually. Was it food poisoning or just a cold?”

“You poisoned my food, is that it?” Apparently adulthood didn’t demand rationality.

“No,” the guy seemed genuinely distressed but only for a moment then he was back to his annoying self. “Obviously not. I’ve never even seen you eat. This is a library. Isn’t food prohibited?”

Grantaire would beg to differ given the snacking he had partaken in over the years but touché.

“Fine. But wouldn’t you say it was a little creepy after what you said on Monday?” Grantaire crossed his arms in silent accusation.

“I thought so at the time also. I just had a feeling. I’ve been having a lot more of those feelings lately,” the guy did the customary unpacking from the coat pockets and lined the counter with the usual items but instead of a croissant it was a small bottle of orange juice.

“Feelings?” Grantaire really hoped the guy would just keep his feelings to himself.

“A sense of something really. I just knew you wouldn’t be here and later I had a feeling it was because you were ill. It was strange because I had had that before but I had assumed, hoped really, that they were memories. Now I’m not so sure,” the guy explained. “I think they were something else entirely but the more I think about it the crazier it seems.”

“Has anything about this whole thing seemed sane to you?”

The guy sighed, “No one is more troubled by it than I am, I assure you.” He puzzled in silence for a moment then said, “It was like a premonition. Not a vision or something but I just knew it. I’ve had a lot of it happening but this is the first one that I have witnessed come true.”

Grantaire gawped at the guy and blurted, “You actually believe you’re psychic now?”

“No. Not necessarily. Maybe it is, I don’t know, part of the brain damage,” the stranger reasoned. It was logical and reminded Grantaire that amnesia might not be the only problem the guy had. Just because he appeared functional, of sorts, did not give the full picture.

“Okay, fair. We could test it. Guess what I am going to say?”

The guy shook his head regretfully, “I don’t think that’s how it works. How about if I get another one then I’ll tell you beforehand and that way we can test it.”

It was insanity, pure and unadulterated madness and for some reason Grantaire was going along with it.

“Okay. So? Should we get started on your list?”

“Brilliant,” the guy beamed. “Also, this orange juice is for you to help build your strength.” He gingerly pushed it towards Grantaire. It was oddly sweet in a creepy ‘I predicted your illness in a freaky psychic premonition and hence I had the foresight to bring vitamin C’ way.

“Thank you,” Grantaire took it and placed it behind his desk, vowing to check the seal before drinking. “So. I think we should start by working out what the individual points mean.”

“I have done some of that already.”

“Okay what have you got?”

“Well, Lamarque murder, as you suggested before could mean either he was murdered or murdered someone. The shooting part is clear but then again I thought on it and it could even be a photo shoot but that isn’t in keeping with the rest of the points. I saw the River Café on the high street earlier,” he shot Grantaire a significant look, “but it could possibly refer to somewhere else. The Valjean election must be in reference to exactly that, although if the results haven’t happened yet then I don’t understand its significance. The fourth one is self-explanatory but I don’t know who either of them are and I am not sure who Joly is either but I’m guessing he fractured his ankle.”

“Okaaay,” Grantaire said slowly, distinctly no better informed than before. “Should we start by looking up the names?”

“Good idea,” the stranger said, before moving eagerly towards the computer area.

“I’ll just do it on this computer,” Grantaire said. “I’m still working after all.” Although it was mainly because he didn’t want to be dragged away from the sanctuary of his desk.

The guy shuffled around the desk and awkwardly loitered behind Grantaire. He was all long arms and legs, and it wouldn’t do at all.

“Go get that chair,” Grantaire gestured towards a wooden chair tucked in at a study station. The guy obliged with no complaint.

“Okay, good. Where first?”

“Lamarque, I suppose.”

Grantaire typed the name in and found that indeed he was a politician. He clicked through news sites, Wikipedia and some forums. Lamarque was reasonably left-wing, a supporter of equal rights, and appeared involved in charity work. He had a young family and hair that was attractively greying.

“Well, he hasn’t been murdered,” Grantaire commented. “I suppose he could be a depraved killer though.”

The man frowned, “He doesn’t seem the sort.”

“Well, they always say ‘he seemed so normal, so nice, we never saw it coming’. They are the worse ones,” Grantaire explained.

The response was a huff.

“Could it be a different Lamarque?” Grantaire asked.

“I don’t see why not but this guy makes sense.”

“Well, no because he isn’t linked to murder.”

“Type in the whole thing then,” the guy suggested.

“The whole what?”

“The whole bullet point,” he exasperated.

“Okay.” Grantaire typed it and someone called Lamarque had been murdered 46 years ago in Morocco.

“He familiar?” Grantaire asked, pointing at a picture of the man in black and white taken from a newspaper.

“Obviously not,” the man scoffed.

“Dude, you have amnesia. I have no idea what you know or not. Just go with it.”

“Fine. Go onto the next one.”

They systematically looked into all the points, Grantaire typing, the amnesia guy back-seat driving; leaning in too close and generally getting nowhere. The only discovery they made was that Thénardier was a member of a political party called Montfermeil, which appeared rather radical. The stranger was most disgusted.

“Ugh, it doesn’t surprise me that such a man would pay people to cover things up. He is utterly deplorable. He believes that this country should be all white British? What the fuck is wrong with him?”

“Shhh,” Grantaire urged, aware that it was after school hours and children were potentially in earshot.

“I will not shush,” the guy scowled. “Go on their website again, I want to read their policies.”

“No. That will not help with the amnesia thing.”

“I know but I want to see it. Are you not disgusted?” The guy was growing in displeasure.

“Well, of course I am but it’s not a new viewpoint. I’m hardly bowled over by the idea there are shitty people in the world,” he considered, “Then again, maybe you are. Did you forget about how shit the world is?”

“No. I just clearly forgot about this particular shitty man.”

“Fair,” Grantaire glanced at the clock. It was twenty to six. “Shit. I was supposed to close 10 minutes ago. I haven’t finished shutting things down.” He jumped up in the cramped workspace and began to hurriedly organise his desk.

“Ohh,” the stranger stood and floundered. “Sorry. Do you need help?”

Grantaire shrewdly surveyed the lanky, awkward, one-eyed man who didn’t know his own name. “No, I’m good, you just, err.” How do you diplomatically tell someone to leave?

“Should I just come back tomorrow?”

_No, no, tomorrow would be too soon._

“Sure, but,” Grantaire was now running around turning off computers, “Don’t you think it’s pointless?”

The man drifted after him, waiflike and thoughtful, “I suppose, the list hasn’t been helpful but I think you have so perhaps I’ll go away and think of some things and then I’ll be back. I think you’ll probably be here.”

_Will I? Lucky me._

“Okay, sure,” Grantaire called absently from the children’s section, “Do whatever.”

Then the library was empty aside from a very harried Grantaire.

***

By the time Grantaire had finished closing up and caught the later bus he was almost an hour late getting home.

He came in to find his flatmate in an elaborate yoga pose in the middle of the kitchen. Moonhowler or something. The yoga mat was laid over the linoleum and there was a saucepan simmering on the stove.

“How can that be relaxing?” Grantaire asked as he flopped into a chair at the breakfast table despite still being in his coat.

“What do you mean?” She said as she uncoiled herself and stood to check the pan.

“Cooking at the same time.”

“It really isn’t all that relaxing. But I need to get better.”

Éponine was not what one would call your usual yoga practitioner. For starters she was extremely competitive and if pressed would admit that she took malicious pleasure from out-stretching the others at her class. Even Grantaire, someone repulsed by the idea of group stretching, knew that this was not the point. Additionally, Éponine looked strangely out of place with her sleeve of tattoos and at least three facial piercings. However, despite this, she was very dedicated. The yoga was one of several changes Éponine was making in her life to turn things around and she was making good progress. She had a nice job in a nice office with nice, normal people. She could pay her rent and, apparently, cook a rather nice ravioli.

Thankfully she was still very much Éponine.

“There’s this one woman there, I kid you not she must be like eighty, anyway, she is ridiculous. I think she is better than the teacher. I promise you that I’ll be better than that bitch by Easter. Maybe summer. She probably invented yoga she’s so old.”

Grantaire hummed in recognition as he ate the ravioli he had been blessed with several minutes earlier.

“Anyway, where have you been?”

Grantaire swallowed the deliciously cheesy goodness and huffed, “There was this guy at work. I probably told you about him.”

“The guy who sticks gum between the pages in the self-help section?”

“Err, no, but I pray every day that he has received the help he needs and never returns.”

Éponine laughed, “You’ve never prayed a day in your life. Was it the old lady who asked if you would do a ‘home-visit’?” She snickered as she pronged a savoury parcel.

“No, no. I said guy. Jeez. He came in last week? With a bandage on his face?”

Éponine shook her head, “Sorry kid. I would remember that.”

Grantaire deflated and began the tale in as an abridged version as he could manage, “He came in and wanted me to help him with this list of names and events that have never happened. He got the list off his arm, which honestly I still don’t understand, and he keeps coming back and demanding I help.”

“Off his arm?”

Grantaire shrugged, “He also doesn’t remember who he is, which is the main issue here really. I think I might be his identity coach or something.”

Éponine arched a dark eyebrow, her mouth full of pasta.

“He had an accident or something and has amnesia of some kind. He said he loves libraries but doesn’t remember ever being in one. His eye was damaged in the accident.”

“Poor kid,” Éponine said. She was always the more compassionate to those in need. “What have the doctors said?”

“Nothing. They don’t know who he is, so they don’t seem to care.”

“Okay,” she frowned. “Well, what is he doing now? Is he staying at the hospital?”

“In a boarding house with a nurse. Hopefully, she’ll adopt him or something and then he’ll find peace. Or more importantly then I will find peace. He’s been back three or four times now.”

“Oh, shut it you. You say some of the dumbest shit. He’s probably really confused.” She snorted and then added, “Perhaps he can’t resist your rugged charm.”

Grantaire glared and continued drily, “And you say I say dumb shit. Anyways, I don’t doubt he’s confused but he’s also really annoying and kind of crazy. Did I mention the arm list?”

“Yeah. What is the deal with that?”

“Fuck knows. I’m not sure if it’s appropriate to ask. He also told me he might be psychic now.”

Éponine’s frown moved into something of deeper concern, “Perhaps you need to refer him to someone.”

“I dunno. He would probably object. He seems to find a lot of things objectionable. Plus he was right about me being ill. He told me on Monday he wouldn’t be in till Thursday ‘cause he had a feeling I wouldn’t be there,” Grantaire stuffed more pasta parcels in his mouth in a desperate attempt to stop them getting cold.

Éponine looked as though she wasn’t sure what to say anyway. Finally she asked, “Have you looked into what effect amnesia can have on the brain. What type? It could help him piece things together.”

“Sure, I’ll mention it to him.” Grantaire lamented, still trying to chew, “Probably tomorrow. I’m sure he’ll pop in for a few minutes, or hours.”

Éponine laughed at his dejected tone, “How does a beverage sound to you?”

He pretended to not be immediately uplifted but still said, “It is pretty much the only sound I want to hear for the foreseeable future.”

***

Their favourite pub was small and always crowded, no matter the day of the week. This Thursday was no exception and as the bartender passed Grantaire their drinks, Éponine busy securing a table, someone knocked into him spilling Éponine’s alcoholic ginger beer all over Grantaire’s t-shirt.

A lot of swearing and dabbing followed.

Finally Grantaire made it to their table with new drinks and a t-shirt that was now both damp and sporting a lot of fluff from the cloth he had tried to dry it with. Éponine regarded it shrewdly and wisely remained silent on the matter.

“Remind me why we come here?” Grantaire groaned, as he folded onto a wooden bench.

“Because it is an establishment that sells legal, liquid drugs for a reasonable price?” She sipped innocently at the beer through a straw. This time Grantaire had left it in the bottle to avoid spillage. She would have to make do, he surmised.

“Oh yeah, right. That.”

They drank in silence for a time, watching the swell of people moving through the space.

Then Grantaire, much to his mortification, saw him. He was coming in with a bluster of cold wind from outside, blond hair fluttering into his face and his red coat unmistakable.

“That’s him,” he grit out towards Éponine.

“Who? What him?” She hadn’t seen him yet, if she had she would have known.

“The one with the blond hair and the eyepatch,” Grantaire urgently explained, leaning across the table and gesturing with a jerk of his head. He quickly sat back down in case he was seen. The guy only had one eye but Grantaire suspected it was as astute as two.

Éponine looked about, wide eyed and without any subtlety. “Ohhh.” She acknowledged and then turned on Grantaire, “I feel there were a few things in your description you failed to-“

“Hello,” a familiar voice said from close by.

Both looked up from their seats to see he was standing over them, looking somehow very out of place in the pub but also very imposing.

He continued speaking towards Grantaire, “Sorry to disturb you while you aren’t working but I said I would let you know if I had one of those premonitions again.”

When Grantaire didn’t immediately answer, too dumbfounded by the collision of two worlds, the stranger shuffled awkwardly on the spot and looked about himself. Then, spotting Éponine, said, “Hello, nice to meet you. Are you Grantaire’s girlfriend? I’m sorry to disturb your date.” He even reached out a gloved hand to shake hers.

Éponine’s face creased into something that could only be described as unadulterated delight. She shook the hand with vigour, “No problem, come and sit down.” She shuffled along the bench to make room. The stranger stood gawkily for a moment before hesitantly taking the seat. It meant he was now sitting opposite Grantaire. It was less than ideal. As usual, Éponine loved to bring the drama. She continued, “I’m not Grantaire’s girlfriend, just his flatmate, Éponine. And you are?”

Grantaire wanted to kick her under the table for asking such a silly question but he was worried he would kick the newcomer so refrained. She seemed to realise her mistake and grimaced apologetically in return.

The guy faltered but then said, “I met Grantaire at the library. He is helping me with some research I’m doing into my amnesia.” He then glanced at Grantaire as if unsure if this explanation was unwelcome. He didn’t know that Éponine knew everything and Grantaire was not inclined to tell him.

“Yeah,” Grantaire was beginning to learn that going along with the guy was just easier. “Err, is Éponine listening in okay?”

“It’s not for me to say. She invited me to join you,” the guy said and then appeared to consider. “I think I need all the help I can get.”

Everyone was silent for a beat then the newcomer said, “So, I suppose I was right in predicting that ginger beer would get spilt down your t-shirt as it was passed over the bar?” He gestured at the damp, fluffy mess down Grantaire’s front.

Grantaire shared a disbelieving look with Éponine.

The guy looked between them and concluded, “So I was right?” He reached into the coat pocket, retrieved the pad and then jotted something down. He looked back up at Grantaire and said, “I think I’m getting better at interpreting it. I even knew it would be in this bar and tonight.” He turned to Éponine, “I didn’t know you would be here so sorry about that but I think I’m definitely getting better.”

“Do you even want to get better at it?” Grantaire asked.

The guy paused in what appeared to be careful thought and eventually replied, “I’m not really sure. It just seems significant that I can’t remember anything yet can predict future events.”

“If that is even what it is. You realise that isn’t normal? You remember that?”

The guy scowled and snapped, “Of course I remember that. I’m not an invalid.”

Grantaire held up his hands in a half-mocking, half placating gesture, “Cool your horses. I’m piecing it together too. I know as much as you do.”

“I would say you undoubtedly know more,” the guy muttered. “And there is really no need to patronise me.”

“Fair enough,” Grantaire allowed. He fumbled for something to say. “So? What do you predict you’ll do next?”

It earned him a glare from both of his companions but the guy, apparently too weary to argue beyond this, answered, “I think I will go back to the hospital and look into where they found me. The paramedics must know, or the A&E doctors. Someone must have some idea. I didn’t just drop from the sky.”

Grantaire very much thought that he looked angelic enough to have indeed done just that but remained silent.

“That’s a good idea,” Éponine supplied, and tailing back to the point she had made at the flat, “Also try looking into what type of amnesia it is or if there are different types or causes. Just an idea.”

“Good one,” the guy said and flicked to another page in the pad to jot it down. He scrutinised the pad and confessed, “I feel like I have to write everything down in case I forget again. How can I be sure this is even the first time?”

Grantaire chewed his lower lip. It perhaps wasn’t impossible for it to happen again but he didn’t know enough about it to say for sure. “But I thought it all happened after an accident with your head and eye?”

“Well, that is what I _assume_ but I don’t know that for sure. The doctor who explained to me what had happened said that they didn’t operate on my head only my eye and that they aren’t sure why I had amnesia to begin with,” the guy explained as he flicked his pen between finger and thumb.

“That’s quite strange,” Éponine supplied. “What tests did they do?”

“X-ray and MRI, I think.”

“And they didn’t find anything wrong with your brain?” Grantaire questioned.

“No. Why do you sound so surprised?” The guy replied with accusation.

Grantaire feigned being wounded, “Why the tone? I mean, you don’t even know your name. It’s a reasonable question.”

The guy regarded him carefully, then surrendered, “Fine. And no, my brain was fine as far as I know.”

“But why was your eye not fine?” Éponine asked thoughtfully.

“They said there was always something wrong with my eye. A defect.”

“So was it a planned procedure?”

This halted the stranger, his lips pursed in quelled questioning. When he finally spoke it was strained, “I, I’m not sure. Then again, no. I don’t think so. If it was planned then why don’t _they_ know my name?”

“Perhaps this goes deeper than we thought,” Grantaire supplied. It was both the right and absolutely wrong thing to say. It appeared to heighten the conspiracy theorist in the one-eyed man to monumental proportions. One could almost see the cogs turning as he envisioned all possible foul play. _Well, just great, fuel the fire why don’t you._

“I have some thinking to do,” the guy eventually said, as he leapt up. As an afterthought he turned to Éponine and said, “It was nice to meet you, thank you for your advice,” before all but evaporating.

Grantaire wasn’t attached enough to query after his own thank you, he really wasn’t. The guy was beyond irksome.

Éponine was staring out into the pub at the spot where he had been standing with a look of bewilderment. She slowly turned back towards Grantaire.

“Yes, he always does that. Yes, he did know about the drink for no immediately obvious reason. Yes, he is for real,” Grantaire rattled off before taking a large swig of his beer.

“He actually is for real,” she murmured, still slightly dazed.

“Yup, and he is a colossal pain in the arse. I would go as far as to say that he is fast becoming the primary bane of my waking existence.”

“But we are going to help him, right?”

“It’s in the cards.”

“Was that a psychic joke?”

“Maybe yes, maybe no.”

He really, truly was a sucker for a pretty face.

***

Grantaire half expected the stranger to not show up on Friday. He half hoped he wouldn’t. However, much to his annoyance he half hoped he would. He was becoming drawn to the ongoing drama and the anticipation of whatever bizarre narrative the stranger would conjure next. Éponine would say he was becoming drawn to the stranger but that was just silly talk.

At 14.30, the stranger, not one to disappoint, arrived in his usual style and more or less immediately asked Grantaire to join him in the backroom.

“You what?”

“I need you to take me to the staffroom, or the storeroom, or even, if honestly nothing else is available, the toilet,” he requested as one would ask for a tea or coffee.

“Have you forgotten how to wipe your arse now? I can talk you through it, it’s really not a-“

“Must you insist on making everything into some sort of joke?” The stranger sounded both annoyed and exhausted.

“Well, now we’re on the subject-“

Perhaps Grantaire’s cheerful tone had been too telling of the joke to follow. Regardless the stranger cut him off by pointing at a closed door behind Grantaire’s desk and sharply asking, “What’s in there?”

“Err,” Grantaire startled. “The storeroom.”

“Excellent,” the stranger, without hesitation, rounded the desk and began to insistently escort the now flustered librarian towards it.

Once inside and surrounded by books on metal shelving, all Grantaire could think to say was, “Hostile work environment.”

The visible eye did an exaggerated roll, “I think you will find I asked nicely.”

“Yes, with absolutely no context. This could be you assaulting me. For all I know you could have an accomplice robbing the place as we speak,” Grantaire sullenly quipped.

“Robbing you of the £20 petty cash and the tub of Heroes you have stashed under the desk?” The guy reasoned, with strangely little humour.

“I meant the hundreds of books. Knowledge is the ultimate reward,” Grantaire deadpanned, looking about the cold storeroom as a means of looking at anything but his fellow inhabitant.

“That is one of the few things I think we could agree on,” the guy said, already with the notepad out and absently leafing through it. “Right. Now I wanted to show you something.”

“Firstly, creepy. Secondly, is that the eye of Sauron or something? Even the Heroes can’t hide from its all-seeing gaze.”

The guy sighed, “If you are going to mock me, I won’t show it to you.”

“Show me what?”

“My eye.”

Suddenly Grantaire was very much interested in the secret show and tell in the storeroom. Perhaps he was drawn to potential gore or perhaps it was the human response to gawk at anything perverse or abnormal. Either way, no matter how bloody, Grantaire was unwaveringly certain in an innate and urgent fashion that he wanted to see the defective, post-operative eye.

“Fine. I’m sorry for insinuating you were the overlord of Mordor.”

“Fine. Apology tenuously accepted,” he said with strangely a degree of humour. Grantaire couldn’t tell if the guy had got the reference or not. Either way, in a heartbeat he was back to business, “I want to show you because I went to the hospital this morning and it was definitely not a planned procedure, as I arrived by ambulance from a hospital in London. Also, the nature of the injury and the, well, defect are quite specific. I thought it would help you if you understood what I meant by that.”

“Okay,” Grantaire wasn’t inclined to elaborate for fear of saying something stupid and causing the offer to be rescinded.

Without any preamble the eyepatch was removed. What was beneath it was not remotely what Grantaire had been expecting.

The left eye had two notable features. The first being that from the inner corner extending outwards over about a third of the ball was a network of red where blood vessels had been damaged. It looked as though someone had taken red ink and dipped it onto the surface of the eye, the ink diffusing across the surface becoming increasingly less pronounced the further from the corner. It was immediately apparent that the focus of the damage had been at the inner corner.

The second, and more perplexing feature, was that there was no pupil or iris.

Indeed the only colour or discernible characteristic the eye possessed was the red extending from the corner.

Grantaire’s inner, primitive urge to view a spectacle was not disappointed. However, regrettably he didn’t know of anything to say that would be appropriate. Was he supposed to be shocked? Sympathetic? Confused? Curious? He found himself all of these things.

In the end he found himself saying, “But how do you see?” It was benign and stupid but it was all he could muster with such little preparation and natural tact.

The right eye rolled and the left eye just _moved_. It was disconcerting. Grantaire found himself staring in perturbed wonder. The guy said, “I don’t, obviously.” He squinted perceptively at Grantaire and then added, “And now you know why I wear the eyepatch.”

With that he replaced it and proceeded to watch Grantaire expectantly. Without something to openly gawk at Grantaire regained an iota of normal function.

“So, what, do the doctors think you were born with the defect?”

The shoulders shrugged slightly with an accompanying sigh, “I suppose so. The doctor was an eye specialist and he said he had never seen anything like it.”

“Did they bring you from a hospital in London because there was an eye specialist here? Wouldn’t there be one in London?” Grantaire threw himself into the task at hand since dwelling on the vision of the eye was confusing.

“Perhaps those in London were busy. It was in the early hours of a Sunday morning. It might be an idea to work out what hospital I was in before coming here though,” the guy replied, fiddling with the metal bindings of the notebook.

“Not a bad shout. Then you could speak to the A&E department there and they might be able to tell you where they picked you up. It might be near your house or somewhere you know,” it occurred to Grantaire that he had offered an entirely rational and potentially successful solution. This was further evidenced by how the stranger’s entire face lit up the small, dingy storeroom.

“Excellent idea,” he jotted feverishly. “Why didn’t I think of that?”

“Too busy with your arm list?” Grantaire jovially surmised. “What did you mean by that anyway?”

The guy arched a perfect blond eyebrow, “It was written on my arm.”

“Well yeah. Is it still there?”

“Of course not,” was the indignant reply. “I might not have a home but I have washed.”

“Good for you, big guy,” Grantaire said, restraining from a thumbs up, and then reasoned, “I mean, it might have been a tattoo or something.”

The stranger made no indication he had heard anything other than the direct question. “Why would I have a tattoo of that on my arm?”

“Well, why would you have that written on your arm? Was it in your own handwriting, the calling quietly from a well writing?”

The guy sniffed but eventually confessed, “Yes, it was my writing. At least I think so.”

“So, why, in the event of an eye injury and possible head injury,” when the guy frowned, Grantaire amended, “which is still open for interpretation. Why would you write a bizarre to do list on your own arm?”

“To do list?”

“Well, yeah. That’s sort of what it is,” Grantaire shrugged.

“I think, I need to-“

“Wait, wait,” Grantaire blocked the exit, anticipating the next move of the flighty visitor. “I’m not having you run off again on the wings of some epiphany. It’s not productive, and that shit is coming from me, the least productive person going. I can’t have you keep barging in and demanding to be taken to backrooms. We need to look into some of this shit before you run off.”

“I will be back.”

“Yeah. You’ll have some crazy arse vision of my house and show up at 2am to talk about A&E and eyeballs.”

“I will not,” the guy said, crossing his arms defensively. “I wouldn’t invade your privacy like that.”

“Past experiences are not speaking favourably of your self-restraint,” Grantaire reminded with a pointed finger.

“You live at 16 Huxton Way, flat 2B. If I were going to visit, I would have done it on Wednesday to tell you not to wear the boots with the suede on your trip to the corner shop,” the guy argued as though this settled the matter.

Grantaire was flummoxed. He had been fighting off the cold, or possible poisoning, on Wednesday and had needed more Lemsip. He had jammed his feet into the first shoes, suede boots with a Western aesthetic, and had subsequently ruined them in a sudden downpour on his way home. It had also done his runny nose no favours but such is life.

All he found to say, in awed bewilderment, was, “I liked those boots.”

“I have one working eye and even I know that you are better off.”

“Now who’s making jokes? Are you stalking me?”

The guy huffed a surprised and most affronted laugh, “Absolutely not.” When Grantaire didn’t reply, mouth most likely still slightly agape, the guy added more meekly, “I know how it must look. But I keep getting all these strange premonitions. I suppose it did rain and ruin the boots then. I mean, how did I know that? And the address? I don’t have an explanation for you.” There was a very long silence, as Grantaire stared and the guy shuffled under said stare. Eventually, the stranger said, “Look. It doesn’t escape me that I have been badgering you at your place of work, and now other places. I do understand that I am an inconvenience and additionally that unexplainable things are happening in connection to me and that that is disconcerting. I assure you that I am no less confounded. The truth is, you have been one of the few people kind enough to help me and your help has been invaluable but it would seem, which is news to me also, that I am quite a persistent and tenacious person who doesn’t know when no is no.” He sighed defeatedly, “If you want me to go then say so.”

A week ago this would have been a golden ticket, to be rid of the weird, pushy, one-eyed psychic. Now Grantaire wasn’t so sure. All he had to do before was read his book and direct old ladies to the crafts section. It was a simpler time. He just wasn’t sure that it had been a better time.

Certainly, he had spent half the week ill with something he still wasn’t sure _wasn’t_ poisoning but it had been an interesting week to say the least. It was exciting to wonder what would happen next. He had found himself pondering the concepts of premonition and amnesia. He had spent invaluable time from his day wondering where the stranger had actually come from. It was a puzzle. It was thought provoking. It shouldn’t be but it was.

He didn’t know if he could go about his life and be satisfied with never learning the outcome.

Every aspect of what composed Grantaire as a person wanted to recoil from it, push the problem away for someone else to pick up and mend. To be a part of something was foreign and important and tiring. Being involved took commitment and responsibility. They were adulthood words that he had spent years ducking away from.

A sceptical part of him considered the possibility that it was all an act or something of a delusion the guy possessed. Perhaps he _was_ a stalker? Grantaire had never had a stalker but he supposed it possessed a degree of validation he might enjoy for a time before things got weird. Weirder that is.

However, Grantaire knew that the suggestion was insensible and inaccurate.

He recalled the red leaking into the white and knew it hadn’t been an act.

Later he wouldn’t be sure if it was a lack of air in the stuffy storeroom, a pretty face or a profoundly uncharacteristic acknowledgement of duty but Grantaire agreed to help the guy.


	2. Chapter 2

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Hello!  
> Thank you for the comments and kudos!  
> There is talk on amnesia and eye defects/injuries. It is not in depth by any means but if you happen to be an expert on either please point out any mistakes or obligingly ignore them.   
> Heads up, they have some discussions that cover some serious topics. It is nothing that Les Amis would not usually discuss but I thought I'd just say.   
> Otherwise, I hope you enjoy.

The guy was strangely ecstatic to have Grantaire on board. It warranted a hammed-up attempt at being grumpy and unwilling when in reality Grantaire wanted to wallow in the adulation.

“If I’m going to help, officially that is, then we need to lay some ground rules,” Grantaire said in an effort to sound commanding and sought-after.

“That’s reasonable,” the guy agreed.

By now they had exited the storeroom and returned to the desk where Grantaire resisted swivelling on his deskchair while the stranger sat squarely on the wooden chair from before. The illusion of maturity was a struggle Grantaire faced every day.

“Firstly, no showing up at my house,” it was accompanied with a significant look.

“Fair.”

“Secondly, no showing up unannounced at other places,” Grantaire tallied his terms while punctuating on his fingers.

“Fine.”

“I will be here 9-5.30 on Monday to Friday and I will give you my number to use if you have another crazy emergency premonition that simply _cannot_ wait 12 hours until morning.”

“Okay, excellent” the guy didn’t even rise to the gentle ribbing, apparently delighted to be given Grantaire’s number of all people. _Weird, weird_.

“We will do all our research here and I’ll set up a library card for you so if I’m busy” – _unlikely_ – “you can research on your own.”

“Perfect,” the guy said and then deflated, “What name will you use?”

“Whatever you want, I guess.”

He frowned, “I would like my real name.” He looked oddly small folded onto the chair, twiddling his biro. “Just put anything for now.”

“Okay,” Grantaire said delicately, for once. “I will try to rise to the challenge.” He contemplated, “What else? Oh, no storming off mid-conversation.” Delicacy didn’t last particularly long in these parts.

The guy nodded, still depleted from the reminder of his lost identity.

Sensing the mood, Grantaire, in a potentially risky move, said, “And finally, if this is going to work you’re just going to have to put up with my bad attitude and general joking around. I mean, it’s not your fault you’re a fun sponge but that’s just the truth of things-”

“A fun sponge?”

“A sponge designed to, you know, soak up fun.”

“Surely that would mean I’m full of fun?”

The guy made a point, Grantaire waved him away, “It’s a complicated concept built into modern culture. It’s kind of elaborate, so don’t worry about it too much.”

The guy huffed and looked rightly sceptical, “I see the potential for a deal breaker but I suppose we’ll manage. Even if you seem to think I’m too inept to understand the function of a simple sea sponge. I presume ignoring your deliberate goading comes under the heading of ‘putting up with’ so it shouldn’t be a problem.”

Grantaire could be wishfully thinking but he was sure it had been said with a smirk. A little one, mind, but baby steps.

“Well, okay then. That’s, err, the spirit,” Grantaire showily spun towards his desk in a stunted swivel that was distinctly dissatisfying. “What’s first on the agenda?”

“Could I have some terms?” The guy asked, with unusual caution.

“To my helping you?” Grantaire spun back, it was a notable improvement.

“Well, you said we would research here but if I need to go to London, or elsewhere, would you come with me?”

Grantaire could already feel the crushing weight of responsibility. It was a reasonable request given the stranger’s lack of memory but going on excursions was lengthy and extra-curricular. Currently the arrangement was something interesting to wile the time away at work. Travel was, frankly, a headache.

If he took Éponine he could turn it into a fun day out.

“Can Éponine come?”

This had not been what the stranger had expected but he recovered well, “Oh. Yes, of course. She had some good input.”

“I’m not saying she will or anything but she might like to,” Grantaire saw fit to backpedal a touch.

“Okay.”

“So, any other terms?”

The guy flicked through the notepad for inspiration before saying, “I think that will be okay.”

Grantaire swivelled back. It was the best yet.

“So? What should we research first? Amnesia, precognition or congenital eye defects?”

“Amnesia, it is most to the point.”

This was how Grantaire spent yet another afternoon huddled around his computer with the handsome amnesia guy sitting too close on the wooden chair.

By 5pm, the guy had a whole page on amnesia in his notebook but somehow it raised more questions than answered them.

“What I don’t understand is how you remember some facts but not others?” Grantaire asked absently as he looked through a page on semantic memory.

“Well, it does say that that is the one least likely to be affected.”

“Yes, but what determines which facts you remember and which you don’t. I mean how can you remember Dumas wrote _The Count of Monte Cristo_ but not remember who he is? Surely that is the same retrieval system.”

“I know but I don’t remember _anyone_. If you asked me to name a person, an actor or something, I couldn’t. No one. There is just nothing.”

“Who plays, I dunno, the Joker in _The Dark Knight?”_

“Heath Ledger.”

“Who is he?”

“I don’t know. An actor, I suppose.”

“Do you have a vision in your mind’s eye of what he looks like?”

“No.”

“Nothing? Have you even seen the film?”

The guy sighed heavily and retorted, “We already established I have no episodic memory so how am I supposed to know that? I don’t have anything before last Sunday. I don’t know what I have or haven’t seen.”

Grantaire could have happily hit his own head against the desk as punishment for his own short-sightedness. “Okay, fine, stupid question. But how did you know Heath Ledger was the correct answer.”

“I just did.”

“It’s like you’re a quiz-bot or something. You have general knowledge and no context at all,” Grantaire dwelled on the concept of a quiz-bot a moment then clicked to another page. “Do you remember the previous things I taught you?”

“Such as?”

“Would you be able to go up to someone in a week’s time and tell them Heath Ledger played the Joker?”

“I would say so,” he chewed the pen. “I mean, I remember Chile is a country in South America still.”

“So you retain things. That’s good.”

“There just seems to be grey areas. It’s not black and white, what type of things I know.”

A strange thought came to Grantaire, “Do you think if someone recounted a story to you about yourself, say we found someone who knew you, and they said you had gone, I dunno, to New York, that you would suddenly remember that?”

The guy shrugged mournfully, “I hope we get a chance to test it.”

Bizarrely, so did Grantaire. This pet project was proving to be potentially very interesting and the beauty of it was that it could all be palmed off to altruism if someone asked. He worked in a small library in a small town two hours north of London, where he knew many of the inhabitants and knew very little of everywhere else. So, of course Grantaire had raided the library’s sci-fi and fantasy shelves to pass the time. The entirety of his brain was composed of spell craft, teleportation and ‘chosen ones’. Was he being chosen? Is that what this was? It usually started like this, a normal, well, girl (semantics) would meet a handsome stranger and be whisked away to adventure and accreditation. Eyepatch guy didn’t seem to have any notably _cool_ powers but predicting spilt ginger beer was better than nothing.

Grantaire was interrupted from this delusion of grandeur by an elderly lady approaching the desk and asking Eyepatch where the knitting and crochet books could be found. Naturally, Patches floundered and poked Grantaire into awareness. _Reality called_.

“Hello, dear. I just need a book on crochet and was wondering if you could point me in the right direction,” the lady said, she was familiar in her powder blue coat but, as usual with this town, he wasn’t sure from where.

Either way, he led her off into the bowels of non-fiction and found her a range of relevant material.

“Is he the new librarian?” The lady asked Grantaire while he awkwardly crouched to read the bottom shelf for her.

“Who?” Then remembering, “Oh. No, no. I’m not leaving or anything” – _I wish_ – “He’s just someone I’m helping with some research.”

“Poor dear, can he not read?” It was said as though reading in of itself was the greatest of gifts. Maybe it was.

“Err.” He wasn’t sure what to say. It was a particularly strange question to ask about anyone. “Yes, he can he just needed advice on things and doesn’t have a computer at home.”

“I don’t have a computer either,” she explained, “I could use some help with some research too. Do you tutor people at home? What are your fees?”

Now he remembered her. _Home visit lady_. Today she had taken a more subtle approach, more tactful, more artful and more devious. _My_ fees? _Jeez woman, let a man work in peace._

A palaver of avoidance tactics and outright lying commenced, resulting in her leaving some 25 minutes later with a large number of craft books that Grantaire had _personally_ recommended. In truth, he suspected that if he were to actually read one of them that the remnants of his diminishing self-respect would wither up into a dried out husk. Any book that involved instructions, craft based or otherwise, was to Grantaire like a cross to a vampire; he physically recoiled.

In conclusion, his librarian chair was a throne of lies and he dished them out freely and unabashedly. It was survival, after all.

The positive was that while in non-fiction he gathered a vast number of books on amnesia and premonition. He then had the privilege of presenting them to Patches and witnessing his delight light up his face. It was perhaps enough to lighten his own mood.

Not that it made the guy any less exasperating, of course.

They researched together for the rest of Grantaire’s shift, occasionally sharing findings otherwise the only sounds were the squeak of Grantaire’s chair as he tried not to spin and the rhythmic scratching of the guy’s pen on paper.

By the end they had finished covering amnesia, still unsure on the exact specifics but much more well informed, and were slowly tackling premonition. It was a much more difficult subject since much of the material was on historical myth or bizarre first-person accounts. It was not a subject supported by rigorous scientific backing and this was increasingly apparent as they waded through quackery and outlandish theory.

It seemed to leave Eyepatch even more disheartened.

“I think I’m going to go,” he said at ten past five, a perceivable slump to his posture now. “Do you need a hand with anything?”

“No, I’m good.” Grantaire added, “It’s Saturday tomorrow. What’s your plan?” He assumed that the guy would want to continue researching but was conflicted over whether he wanted to offer his services or not. On the one hand, he was curious, on the other, videos games, cartoons and alcohol consumption called to him like a siren song from the rocky shores of a sedate weekend. But these were the types of sirens he had visited many times previously and he returned to anyway. He’d obviously been reading too much mythology today.

The guy shrunk further at the reminder of the weekend, “That depends on you. Would I be allowed to take out some books at any rate?”

Grantaire chewed on his lower lip and considered, “Okay. Could you do me a favour and turn off the computers while I sort that out for you?”

“Okay,” the guy said in easy agreement, heading over to the computer area.

While Patches was distracted Grantaire created an account for him online with a new name and then used the account to take out four books for him. He loaded them into a bag and wrote his phone number on a bright orange sticky note, tacking it onto the top book.

By the time Eyepatch had returned Grantaire had done his final checks and was ready to close.

The guy eyed the bag and said with a degree of uncertainty, “I can take them?”

“I made you a library card so you can take up to six books whenever you want. I don’t suppose I’ll need to chase you up on them so I won’t bore you with the rules,” Grantaire said, trying to effect nonchalance.

“Of course not, they are public property, I wouldn’t dream of stealing them,” he said with annoyance Grantaire realised wasn’t aimed at him for once.

“Anyway, here’s your card. I picked the name because if seemed to fit and, well, you’ll see.”

He took the card and a small line of thoughtful concentration formed between his eyebrows as he read the name. After a few moments, it smoothed over and he secreted the card into the inner pocket of the coat with a small nod. It was a meaningful gesture.

Grantaire, for lack of anything better to say in the face of this, said, “It’ll be a relief to stop calling you Patches O’Houlihan in my internal monologue. Not that he had an eyepatch or anything but I’m sure you catch my drift.”

 Patches who, given his amnesia, quite obviously did not get the reference or catch the drift, huffed not-unkindly and said, “And you thought Apollo Belvedere was less unusual?”

While reading on premonition Grantaire had seen that in Greek and Roman mythology Apollo had been a prophetic God who had had an oracle in Delphi. The Belvedere was in reference to the statue. Grantaire maintained he wasn’t interested in the history of art and sculpture but his frequenting of the art section begged to differ.

“It’s topical and sounds French, sort of,” Grantaire defended.

“I agree,” he said. Apparently, it was as easy as that. _Too easy_. Grantaire couldn’t decide if he was being placated or patronised or, most improbably, actually agreed with.

“So, I can call you that?”

The guy considered and then said, “I don’t see why not. I haven’t come up with anything better and I doubt I will since I’m too subjective to think of my own name. It’s only temporary until I find my name, hopefully, so I will manage” It was said with a regretful air but otherwise he sounded fairly satisfied with the name and perhaps tentatively optimistic.

With that, Apollo thanked Grantaire and left.

***

Grantaire didn’t hear from Apollo until the Saturday evening. Thankfully it was still early and blood alcohol levels were still relatively low. Despite this Grantaire, perpetually unreliable as he was, still missed the call. In a wasteland of PPI callers, telemarketers and con-artists, all things Grantaire decided not to mention to Apollo for fear of riling him up, it was a miracle Grantaire even bothered to listen to the voicemail.

“ _Hello, is this Grantaire’s phone? It’s, err, it’s Apollo_.” _This_ _was followed by_ _some indecipherable muttering down the vein of being unused to the name and being generally annoyed in some capacity. “Anyway, I need to speak to you. I have been reading and I also went to the hospital. I have some things. Also, something happened. Call me.” More muttering. “I don’t need to read my number to you do I, you’ll have it automatically?” A weary sigh. “I hate phones.”_

Grantaire let out a warm laugh. _Typical Apollo_. When he realised what he had done, he deliberately didn’t call back for ten minutes in silent, childish protest. He could have gone longer, easy peasy, but that would have just been rude and uncalled for. He wasn’t a monster.

The phone rang twice before a disgruntled voice answered, “Hello? Grantaire?”

“Err, yes. Have you not put my number in your phone with my name?” Grantaire saw potential for teasing and took it. Maybe he was a monster.

“Ugh. Fantine said that too. I can’t get on with this phone. I just write the numbers in the back of my notepad and type them in now. It’s just easier,” was the irritated reply.

“Surely working a phone would be procedural memory?”

“Well, maybe I had a different phone before. One that functioned logically and therefore I could use.”

“Perhaps they didn’t have phones where you’re from?” Grantaire mused jokily.

“Perhaps the people there were more helpful, and focused too,” the voice snipped, Grantaire could almost see the frown line forming between the eyebrows.

“Okay, okay. What did you want?”

“I don’t want to speak over the phone. Can we meet in person at some point?” The voice grew more uncertain and imploring, “If that isn’t too invasive?”

Grantaire sighed. The guy might not remember his own identity or how to use a phone, although Grantaire suspected that this was wilfully so, but he sure knew how to pull on the heart strings. _Bring out the puppy eyes, well, eye._

“Fine. When?”

“As soon as possible,” voice returning to its usual determined self.

If Grantaire hadn’t spent the day lounging in his boxers and a t-shirt, playing an RPG on Xbox and eating spreadable chocolate directly out of the jar with a spoon he might have been inclined to tell Apollo no but apparently guilt was a powerful emotion. _Damn you and your kind heart_.

“Okay. Whatever. Come to my flat. Apparently, you know the address already.” Then he hung up before he could promise away more.

Besides, he needed to shower and make his room look as though an evolved human lived there rather than a feral raccoon.

***

Apollo arrived in an amount of time Grantaire deemed suspiciously speedy, as though he had been loitering at the corner in hopeful anticipation. He decided weirder things had happened in the scheme of things but it meant the house wasn’t as orderly as he would have liked and his hair was still damp. This was his penance for being slovenly.

"Hello," Apollo said timidly from the doorstep before bustling in and knocking the bowl of keys and its accompanying clutter off of the table in the hall. This was achieved because Apollo had acquired what could only be described as a backpack of epic proportions. It was like he had just advanced to senior school and was yet to realise that growing a shell large enough for inhabitation was not cool or indeed even practical.

"Nice backpack," Grantaire commented as he gathered keys and suspicious fluffy crumbs and piled them back into the bowl. _Tomorrow Grantaire's problem,_ he thought as he brushed crumbs off onto the front of his jeans. Apollo apologised about the incident but didn't dignify the jibe with a response.

On that note, Grantaire led him to the kitchen and invited him to deposit his exoskeleton onto the breakfast table.

"Do come on in." Grantaire showily said, an air of sarcasm he hadn't quite intended but which seemed to express his mood perfectly. Apollo began to unzip his backpack without a second thought.

What emerged was a pile of at least five books and the coveted notepad. Apollo stacked everything and then stood awkwardly on the cheap linoleum, looking expectantly at Grantaire.

Grantaire’s hosting skills were abysmally lax at the best of times and this was not the usual scenario. Apollo generally teetered between tentative and entitled and Grantaire couldn’t decide if he was being reproached or beseeched to.

“Err, do you want a drink or something?”

Apollo’s eye widened before he thoughtfully nodded.

“Tea, coffee, juice?” Grantaire pried the fridge open, “I take that back. No juice. Milk? A homemade smoothie Éponine has already drunk half of?” He shut the fridge. “Any takers?”

“Tea, please.”

Grantaire set about making this and realised Apollo was still lingering next to the table.

“You can sit, you know?” Grantaire said over a simmering kettle, “that joint halfway up your leg allows for it.”

Apollo frowned at this and quickly sat with what looked like relief. Grantaire realised he hadn’t been waiting for a drink but for an invitation to sit. It was strangely sweet. Obviously, it was also ridiculous and unnecessary and infuriating to the highest degree. _Obviously_.

Once the tea was made and both were seated over steaming mugs, Apollo said, “Again, I’m sorry to barge in on you but a lot has happened since yesterday that I need to discuss with you.” He spoke rapidly as though he was worried he wouldn’t have time to get through all of the material before he overstayed his welcome. What he didn’t realise was that most inclusive, communal activities were more than Grantaire could comfortably tolerate anyway but that he was too passive to ever enforce anything.

“Fine. Just start from the beginning.” He then added, “And calm down, it’s not a spelling bee.”

“Okay,” he said, supplemented with a look of confusion. “So, firstly, I have looked into what is happening with my eye.” He reached for a book – actually it was more of a tome – and heaved it to the edge of the table, levering it open to a bookmarked page.

“This isn’t from my library,” Grantaire remarked. _His_ library? Was he actually growing possessive of the place? It didn’t bare thinking about.

“No, Fantine let me borrow it.”

Grantaire eyed the leathery volume, “Is Fantine a mage of some kind? Because if I didn’t know any better I would think you’d been questing.”

Apollo regarded him for a few seconds, deciphering the meaning, and then shrewdly said, “Well, I have been. I’ve been traveling about town all day looking for clues to my lost identity. I would think that fits your definition of a quest, don’t you? Except, of course, without all the silly fantasy. You will be disappointed to learn that Fantine is a nurse and not a sorcerer. But perhaps some would describe medicine as a form of witchcraft.” He waved a flippant hand, “Imagine whatever you want just please listen.”

Feeling utterly slapped down and possibly a little windswept, Grantaire gawped as his companion scanned a paragraph with a careful finger. Was it possible Apollo actually possessed some sass under the determination and awkwardness? Was Grantaire just put into his place? _You come into my house on the day of my Dragon Age Marathon and ask me to do research?_

“Anyway, I have been reading into congenital eye defects and I can’t seem to find anything that describes someone having neither a pupil nor an iris as I have but there are cases of people not having an iris.”

Grantaire nodded along, afraid to speak and release the inevitable diatribe.

“It’s called aniridia. It’s usually congenital or caused by another condition. It would seem it leads to visual impairment but I don’t see through that eye at all, how could I, so the point is moot. Plus, it’s usually bilateral. So really, what I’m trying to say is that I don’t have this,” he shrugged and flipped to another page. “I can’t find anything on having an iris and no pupil but maybe that exists too. Also, there have been cases reported where people have been born with two pupillary openings in the one iris called polycoria or what looks like two completely separate pupils and irises.” Apollo pointed to a close-up picture of an eyeball with two separate pupils and irises at opposite corners. Grantaire peered in fascination.

“So, what you’re telling me is that variations exist but not your variant?”

“Exactly,” Apollo seemed pleased to have Grantaire in sensible participation. “It is rare but it is possible for the body to make two pupils so in theory it could also make none.”

“Stands to reason,” Grantaire agreed.

“I felt like I won’t get a conclusive answer from this so then I looked up the impact of an injury to the eye.”

Grantaire performed a placating shrug to encourage elaboration.

“I don’t really know what type of injury it was. You can get blows, chemical, foreign bodies or penetrating injuries. The doctor suggested my eye had been bleeding when I arrived, which doesn’t mean much, but that it had most likely been direct trauma so I suspect it was penetrating. Meaning something got in the eye and did damage.”

“Like a pin or like an infection?”

“A pin or anything sharp that did damage to the surface directly.” He pointed demonstratively to the eyepatch. “It doesn’t even really matter. I just want to know if what is happening to me is a known side effect.”

“Is it?”

“Well, no. Not that I can find.”

“And what about the red in your eye? Is that blood? Should that be investigated?”

“Oh, the doctor said that was just scarring from the bleed and the injury.”

“So, basically you got stabbed in the eye, which happened to already have a defect, and none of the following events are explained by it?”

“Essentially.”                    

“Like Éponine said, doesn’t that seem a little coincidental?”

“Yes,” and with that Apollo sagged. Apparently, optometry lecturer was not in his career path although he had had quite the crack at it.

“Can I assume that this was a dead-end?” Grantaire concluded, not unkindly.

Apollo continued to scowl but it seemed to be aimed inwards.

There was a period of silence where they both sipped absently on their drinks.

Grantaire gingerly prompted, “So, what else did you find?”

Apollo initially seemed reluctant, as though a lot of emotional effort was involved, but finally replied, “I had a strange dream last night; if I didn’t know any better I would say it was a vision.”

He halted after the confession, watching Grantaire’s face for ridicule. When Grantaire, by way of an actual miracle of potentially biblical proportions, appeared to pass he proceeded, “I went to bed as usual, didn’t eat anything weird before you invariably ask. Then I had a dream about a girl in a beige coat with white fur trim. She was trying to cross the road at that crossroads by the train station and is hit by a car.”

Apollo considered for a time. The content appeared very troubling to him but he continued, “The car, it, well, it doesn’t stop and as far as I can tell she is killed.”

Grantaire realised the only useful input he could provide was one of practicality. He wasn’t skilled in providing comfort without making it into a joke, so really this was the only trick in his repertoire.

Internally he was very disconcerted by the unfolding of events but he realised he was slowly growing immune to the bizarre tale, learning to suspend his disbelief.

“You could see this? Like a film?”

Apollo nodded sadly.

“Okay. Well, obviously this isn’t concrete but we should still investigate it.” Grantaire tried to use his most gentle tone, reading the static posture of his companion. He was a little rusty but it would have to do. Apollo was mercurial, his response could swing anywhere from agreement to outrage. Grantaire added, “When that drink was spilt you knew the where _and_ when. Any clues?”

It would seem a tentative agreement was adopted, “With the drink it wasn’t exact and how it came to me was different; there was no visual, it was just a _knowing_. With this, I don’t _know_ anything but only have a visual. It was at night and the streets were busy. There were other people around. They rushed to help her but the car didn’t slow so the impact was….” He trailed off, the direction of his next words self-explanatory.

“Do you think they were drunk? The driver?”

“Maybe.”

“Did you see the car or the driver?”

Apollo frowned in concentration, trying to remember. “I, I didn’t see the driver but they were male. The car was red and loud. The girl thought it would stop because she was on the crossing.”

“Did you recognise her?”

“No.”

Grantaire considered, “How did you know the driver was male if you didn’t see them?”

Apollo groaned and said briskly, “I don’t know. I just know.”

“No need to get short with me. I’m just trying to help,” Grantaire reasoned, taking a sip of tea.

“Sorry,” Apollo murmured. “It’s just, I don’t have a reasonable answer to give. I just know that we have to stop this from happening.”

“Okay,” Grantaire shrugged defensively. “What do you think I’m trying to do here?”

“Fine.” Apollo fiddled with the string of the light grey hoodie he was wearing. “You’ve been helpful. I think I just need to trust what I know. Sometimes things creep up on me as the time draws near.”

It occurred to Grantaire, from the way Apollo was speaking, that these feelings and knowings were happening very regularly. It was more than just the occasional fleeting suspicion; it was an unending stream of strange unexplainable emotions and inklings.

If this was real, if these premonitions were real, then they needed to get to the bottom of them because they were clearly a major aspect of Apollo’s consciousness.

“Question,” Grantaire said with a raised finger. “When you predicted my poor suede boots would get unjustly ruined, you implied you thought they were ugly. How, without seeing them?”

Apollo looked startled for some reason or other and then, on seemingly recalling, said, “I think I did see them. It wasn’t in a dream though, just in my mind’s eye.”

Grantaire quirked an eyebrow, “Then you ought to know that they are, _were_ , a most beautiful boot.”

“They were a brown and cream cowboy boot with actual tassels,” Apollo exclaimed. “They were horrendous.”

“Perhaps you are remembering them wrong,” Grantaire teased, getting up and fetching the boots from beside the living room radiator. He presented them showily, holding them aloft, “Look at these beauties!”

Apollo regarded them, most unimpressed, and said, “Horrendous.”

They were undoubtedly the same boot he had described except now they possessed filmy stains where the water had soaked into them and dried a different colour. Grantaire had brought it up to both test Apollo and potentially lighten the mood. Grantaire replied with a grin, “They are no longer in their full glory, given, but I think you will agree that they possess a certain ageless majesty.”

“I think you need to reassess your taste levels,” Apollo advised, with a roll of the eye.

“You just don’t remember the intricacies of fashion.”

“I am a sentient being. I can see the damn things. Why would a thinking person buy them?” Apollo seemed oddly good-humoured.

“Jeez, rude much,” Grantaire said without offense and put the boots on the floor near the washing machine. The gentle ribbing had only lightened the mood a fraction. The fact the prediction about the boots had been correct was undeniable and in light of this new vision, very foreboding. Both men, to varying degrees, were growing to realise that something unexplainable and momentous was happening here. Grantaire couldn’t think of any logical reason why Apollo would know about the appearance or fate of the suede boots. Perhaps there was one but actually Grantaire realised that he didn’t _want_ one. He didn’t want to be bored by rational reasons and go back to his library desk slightly deflated when the alternative was a living person who could see into the future.

“You do realise if we go there and stop this, not only will we be doing a good deed but we will be proving without a doubt that you can see the future,” Grantaire said, his voice uncharacteristically low with conspiratorial excitement.

Apollo fingered the handle of his mug in thought then, with a similar tone, replied “I think we should stake out the crossing.”

Grantaire, a man who had spent much of his life in distinct apathy, realised he was actually quite excited.

***

It would seem he had good reason to be. Grantaire officially loves stake outs. Why, you ask? Because the closest location and best vantage point to the crossing was the Devonshire Arms, a popular and reasonably priced pub. It was providence, it was fate, it was Apollo sitting disapprovingly over a half pint of lemonade.

“I don’t know why you’re sulking. You ought to have seen this coming,” Grantaire laughed over a pint of dark liquid. This was a much better use of his Saturday night. Certainly, the company left a lot to be desired in terms of energy levels and enthusiasm but you couldn’t have it all. Besides, Apollo had a certain cantankerous charm that Grantaire was beginning to warm to, even if only to agitate him.

“A woman’s life is at risk,” Apollo chastised, “I don’t know why you can’t be more serious in light of that. Don’t you think she deserves you not to be drunk?”

Grantaire frowned at Apollo, “You think I’d be drunk after one Guinness?”

Apollo didn’t answer instead screwing his face up in silent condemnation.

All following attempts at amicable, pub-like conversation, all championed by Grantaire, fell to ruin. Apollo was too anxious to think about anything but the girl in the beige coat. They had fought off fierce competition to obtain a window seat overlooking the crossing and Apollo compulsively glanced out every few moments, his posture wrought with tension. Soon Grantaire realised it was unreasonable to expect anything less. He ought to know by now that Apollo was innately uptight.

Then again, it occurred to Grantaire that this may in fact not be the case. This could all be a response to the amnesia. In his real life, Apollo might be carefree and fun-loving. The stress of all this could have left him highly-strung and with no past behaviours as context, simply became a foundation to his new personality. It left Grantaire feeling oddly remorseful for being so hard on him.

“Apollo?”

Apollo didn’t look away from the crossing immediately, not realising he was who Grantaire was addressing. He tugged his eyes away and said, “Oh, right. Me. Yes?” The lack of identity only fuelled Grantaire’s need to ask more.

Grantaire wasn’t sure how to ask, only knew that he wanted to, “I was just wondering,” he paused, “Um, do you have any sense of who you used to be? I don’t mean your name but other things?”

Apollo’s expression, if possible, grew even more troubled. He ran a finger absently down the condensation at the side of his glass. Grantaire considered the likelihood of getting an answer but Apollo finally spoke, “I think so.” He immediately paused and took an urgent swig of the lemonade, “I feel like a person but I just don’t know that person. I sometimes do or say things and it occurs to me later that, with the knowledge I have, I can think of no reason why I did that. The other day I got a pair of trainers, pulled all the laces out and re-laced them totally differently. If you’d asked me if I had a preference to that, I wouldn’t have known but at the time I just knew that I wouldn’t be wearing those shoes until they were laced how I like. The same with clothes and bedding and certain foods. I can’t ever recall drinking a Guinness but I know that if I took a sip of that I would pass it right back to you.”

Grantaire regarded the drink and tentatively slid in over the table, “Want to test it?”

Apollo looked sceptical but took a cautionary sip before screwing up his face in disapproval.

“It tastes like blood.”

“Delicious, delicious blood,” Grantaire mused, reclaiming the drink and taking a large swig.

“I told you I wouldn’t like it. I suppose a lot of things are behavioural or procedural or built into me as a person.”

“Like instinct really,” Grantaire supplied. “I have never tasted bleach but I instinctively know not to drink it.”

“But that could have been taught.”

“But you already have an understanding of the world anyway. Assuming it was taught. You were taught not to drink bleach and you taught yourself not to drink Guinness. For different reasons but the logic is the same.”

Apollo nodded slowly, “That makes sense. Actually, it’s quite reassuring.”

“Well, yeah, it means you have elements of your past self even if you don’t have your memories.”

Apollo smiled in a soft, thoughtful way at Grantaire’s words. It seemed significant that they had shared such a reasonable conversation. That is until Apollo remembered their purpose there and nearly whiplashed himself for turning towards the window.

Some fidgety window watching followed while Grantaire tried to explain that Guinness was actually not black but dark red due to the roasting of barley in its preparation. It didn’t appear to win Apollo over to its flavoursome charms.

An hour into the stake out Grantaire loved it a little bit less.

“Did you see us here?” He asked Apollo, who did not appear to have wilted in the slightest. Still as vigilant as ever.

“What do you mean?”

“When you saw the woman, did you see us here peering out the window?”

Apollo frowned at the idea as though it were preposterous. “If I saw us here it wouldn’t have happened?”

Grantaire quirked an eyebrow, sensing an interesting debate about to unfold, “And why’s that?”

“Well, we would have warned her and stopped it.”

“So, in seeing it happening it has made it so it won’t happen,” Grantaire supplied.

“Well, yes. I’m not the type of person who would let an innocent girl die through complacency.”

Grantaire realised this was one of the truths that Apollo instinctively knew about himself. He hadn’t thought before saying it and he didn’t appear to have even considered it strange that he should know such a thing about himself with such certainty. It was a fact. Apollo was the type of person who would stake out a zebra crossing on a Saturday night in the hopes of doing the right thing. Apollo had most likely done such things many times before and just couldn’t remember it. It was the person he was and a lack of memory wouldn’t change it. Grantaire believed this as he watched his companion worry at his now frayed cuff and intently watch the street. Moreover, Grantaire realised he liked this. He liked that there were people like Apollo. People who knew they had to care, had to act even if it was only on an off chance.

Grantaire acknowledged he wasn’t one of those people and the contrast was unsavoury to him. He could remember who he was but he didn’t have enough of a sense of self to make knee-jerk comments about the type of person he was. It was unsettling.

This man with no name still had something Grantaire didn’t have. It ran deeper than a name. It was something knitted into the fibres of who he was. It was something that wouldn’t, couldn’t be taken away from him.

It made Grantaire feel both awed and insignificant.

Apollo, brow furrowed in habitual concern, was trying to speak to him.

“Grantaire?”

“Err, yeah.”

“Are you suggesting that by potentially seeing the future I have changed the future?”

The subject interested him but the earlier realisation had left a shard of something at the back of his mind that would linger. It was something he would have to push down only to be taken out and examined later, to be picked at and mulled over. Grantaire tried to shake himself back into the conversation, “Err yes. And ironically, now, the future you saw is potentially no longer the future because you have chosen to intervene.”

Apollo appraised this, “I think that makes some sense. It says something about how time and causality works though. It’s like if people were to time-travel to the past. There would be two types of causality.”

Grantaire was mystified as to why Apollo would have an interest in this but he was delighted by it. Almost enough to lift him out of his strange, low mood. “Exactly. You could go back and change something and it would change the future or you could go back and change something and nothing would change because you would have always gone back.”

“I suppose if we have changed something it works like the former but I think there are exceptions to the rule,” Apollo agreed.

“How so?”

“Well, if I went back and killed a person who I knew to be bad-”

“Hitler,” Grantaire supplied. “For ease of argument.”

“Hitler?”

There was a long and awkward pause. Grantaire realised Apollo was in for a rude awakening.

“Err, yes Hitler. The guy who, you know, did the Holocaust in the Second World War and killed millions of people in a racial mass genocide-”

Grantaire tailed off. Apollo looked positively sick.

“You, err, remember him now?”

“I don’t have any specifics but it’s, well, let’s just say it’s like the Heath Ledger thing. I, um, I have an understanding. I, you don’t need to explain,” Apollo stuttered and appeared quite red in the face.

“I’m sorry,” Grantaire said. “I know it’s upsetting.” Grantaire wasn’t quite sure how much Apollo knew but it was likely even the realisation had left Apollo so alarmed. For someone with the sentiments Apollo appeared to possess it must have been even more upsetting than for most. The guy had been upset about the NHS cuts and now he was presented with this. Grantaire watched as he stared at the table in silent horror, totally distressed by the information.

Eventually he said, “You were right about there being shitty people in this world.”

“Well, yeah. I’m not gonna lie to you, there are a whole bunch.”

“I know, and it feels like there is an imbalance in my experiences so far. I know there are good things for me to remember too,” his voice sounded small and strained.

“Do you want me to highlight some good things?” Grantaire offered, already wracking his brains for some positives. It was not a known strength he possessed.

“It’s fine,” Apollo muttered. “I’ll learn those with the bad.”

Grantaire couldn’t remember where they’d got to in the time travel debate which was disappointing. So, instead he said, “Would you like me distract you with a beguiling tale about a certain Raven Baxter and her ability to see the future?”

“You knew about someone else and didn’t tell me?” Apollo said with hopeful exasperation but not annoyance.

“I’ll let you be the judge of that,” Grantaire said with a smirk.

Apollo did indeed judge rather harshly but it did allow them to track back to the causality debate.

“So, what you are saying is that no matter what she did to change the future it still happened?”

“Yes, and usually all the things she did to try to change it would make it happen more.”

“That makes no sense. How can our being here make this accident ‘happen more’? It happens or it doesn’t. The only thing would be if we failed to make a change in time or lacked information,” with this he glances out the window to check for the girl. “Surely she would eventually learn from experience and to leave it alone. Besides, that couldn’t possibly work in every scenario. Some would have to be changeable,” Apollo said in all seriousness, seemingly unaware of how amusing it was for someone who had seen the show. Grantaire indulged in imagining Apollo’s eye going wide as he had a vision. He laughed to himself and Apollo gave him a strange look.

“What?”

“No, no. You’re right. It’s just in the context of the show it’s funny.”

Apollo huffed and took a sip of his third lemonade.

Then a very strange thing happened, one that would have made Grantaire laugh again if it hadn’t been so suddenly serious.

Apollo looked absent for a moment and then went frantic, his expression wild and panicked. “She’s here,” he cried as he flew from his chair and ran out of the pub.

***

Grantaire was left sitting alone at the table with a half-finished pint and a backpack the size of a large toddler. He actually considered downing the pint but since it was his third and apparently duty called, he thought better of it. Instead we waddled out of the pub with the backpack muttering about Apollo's negligence. _Some people just didn't even know they were born_.

Outside, Apollo was standing along the outer wall of the pub amongst the smokers, watching beadily for a glimpse of a beige coat. He looked out of place amongst the cigarette butts and the cloud of smoke. Not to mention that he appeared to be the only person south of tipsy in a significant radius.

Once Grantaire had joined him, Apollo said, "She'll come from that direction." He pointed up the street away from the station.

“Okay. When?” Grantaire asked, holding the backpack in such a way as to invite Apollo to take it from him at any time.

Apollo, unsurprisingly, didn’t notice and shuffled on the spot, peering up the street. He said hastily, “I don’t have an ETA or anything but it’s soon, I promise.”

“What’s the plan? To run up to her and warn her? To pull her out of the way of the car? To waylay her enough that she isn’t in its path?” Grantaire had given up and put the backpack on the floor.

“Waylay,” Apollo exclaimed. “But with what? And what if we waylay and her not being there means someone else is?” His tone was growing more frantic. Grantaire couldn’t see the urgency but he realised that was the point. He could only see a street at about 11pm on a Saturday night, people milling about but otherwise not overly crowded, the odd car or taxi puttering past.

Apollo was still consulting himself for answers, “Perhaps we should waylay her on her approach to the crossing, just as she is stepping onto it?”

“What direction does the car come from?”

“That way,” he pointed towards the station without looking at Grantaire, still too wrapped up. “Yes, as she steps onto it, call her back, say ‘did you drop this?’ or something. She will be out of its path.”

Grantaire wondered what would happen if the woman didn’t come. He wondered how Apollo would react.

That point became suddenly moot. A girl approached from their left, a long beige coat with a faux-fur trim. She had a certain shift to her gait, favouring the right foot, which gave her a lilting and distinctive walk. She was likely in her early twenties but appeared older, a pair of plain, scuffed black trainers on her feet. She looked as though she hadn’t been on a night-out but was on her way to the chippy and had flung on the coat.

She had a phone pressed to her ear as she passed them, oblivious to their intent gaze.

Apollo was so full of trepidation that he was practically vibrating, poised on the balls of his feet as though ready to pounce at the girl. Grantaire supposed he was.

She approached the crossing without any caution, unaware of the fate that it held for her, she barely looked.

Apollo shot forwards as soon as her foot touched the flaky white paint, “Excuse me, Miss!”

She didn’t turn to see who had called to her, perhaps didn’t realise she was who it had been intended for.

It happened quickly.

A red VW Golf with black bumpers and low wheel arches careened around the small roundabout from the station, two young men in the front seats. Without indicating it took the exit.

Apollo grabbed the woman by the material of the back of her coat, on the crossing himself now, and dragged her backwards as though by the ruff of her neck. She lost her footing, falling backwards towards him and landing on the raised area of pavement that indicated the start of the crossing.

The car passed without appearing to notice or slow.

The woman sat in one piece on the pavement.

Grantaire realised that, without thinking, he too had surged forwards and was now standing at the edge of the crossing over the rescued girl. He felt flushed with relief. He hadn’t even fully acknowledged his worry until that moment.

Apollo had been fast. He hadn’t thought twice about stepping into the line of fire even though he knew the danger better than anyone.

Grantaire looked over at Apollo, the visible blue eye alight with exhilaration at what he had done.

It was real. It was all real.

This man, this strange, and irritable, and brave, and beautiful, brilliant man could actually see into the future. This was the proof.

There had been a part of Grantaire that hadn’t believed it, had indulged it for something to do but as he caught Apollo’s gaze and they exchanged an awed look he realised there was no pretending anymore.

Grantaire could do nothing but believe in this, believe in what Apollo could do. Believe in Apollo.

A strange feeling that he had passed a point of no return came over him. There was no walking away now.

Back in reality, Apollo crouched down to the woman and earnestly asked, “Are you okay? Sorry that I-“

“What the fuck is your problem?!” The woman spat as she clambered to her feet, slapping Apollo’s hand away as he reached to help her.

And with that fine verbal display came the end of the momentary magic the two men had shared.

“Sorry,” Apollo stammered, holding out a placating arm. “You were about to be hit by that car.”

She rounded on him with a venomous scowl and said, “You pulled me to the fucking ground. Don’t you dare touch me.”

With this she stormed back across the crossing, muttering the word ‘freak’ as she went. Grantaire could have believed that perhaps she had not noticed the car, but even in her anger she checked the road more closely this time proving that she knew what Apollo had done for her.

“What. A. Bitch.” Grantaire pronounced loudly, in automatic reaction.

Apollo didn’t react.

He was standing at the side of the road, staring unfocused at the black and white crossing.

He appeared totally shell-shocked.

Certainly, the ingratitude of the saved woman was a massive fucking dampener but Grantaire wasn’t the type to let rude people ruin the perfectly good natural high they had been sharing.

He didn’t wait for Apollo to speak, bustling into his line of sight, “Hey, listen mate. Like I said, shitty people. They’re all around us. You’re never two feet from the next one. So, the woman you saved was an ungrateful shit. Doesn’t mean you didn’t save her. And I mean _sure_ you probably saved some evil witch who fate wanted dead but you’re the bigger person. Frankly, that was, well, it was pretty, bloody cool on your part. I mean, you did save a human life. Plus, you’ve proved that you are the real deal. You live up to your namesake now, not that you care, obviously, but yeah…” He trailed off. He had just tried to give a person comfort. _Comfort_. It wasn’t the best comfort (or even remotely good) but he had actually tried. That was the main thing. For a reason unknown to him, it was important to have said something. He had even given Apollo, the prince of all annoyances, honest to God praise. _Who was he becoming? Had the Grinch’s heart just grown three sizes?_

Apollo, too, seemed surprised to hear this from Grantaire but, like most emotions that didn’t convey moral distaste, he hid it quickly.

He finally spoke, “I didn’t expect her to be grateful. I mean, I assumed she would be but that wasn’t why I did it, clearly. It was the right thing.” He looked about them, at the unchanged revellers outside the pub, smoking in indifference. “I just, I thought it would be different. That I would feel better.”

“That’s because she shat on it.” When Apollo gave him a look of confused repulsion, he added, “You know? Shat on the mood. Ruined it. If you needed a further example of a fun sponge, you have just experienced it.”

“I didn’t,” Apollo said dryly. A few strangely amicable moments passed before he added, “About fate wanting her dead. If that were the case, then fate wouldn’t have showed me the vision.”

“True enough,” Grantaire agreed. “There was no way you were letting her die, witch or not.”

Apollo nodded, slightly consoled by this. However, there was still something in the set of his shoulders that spoke of uneasiness.

They silently walked back towards the station, both subconsciously radiating away from the unpleasantness of the scene.

As they walked, Grantaire wanted to say something more, about how he respected the other man’s resolve but he was a coward and besides, the moment had passed.

It was Apollo who spoke first, “Do you think fate could want someone dead?”

“I don’t know.” This was Grantaire’s stock response to all things remotely _spiritual_.

“I don’t mean her but I mean if someone were truly evil.”

Grantaire considered, and tried to conjure a reasonable answer, “I don’t think fate works like that. It’s not like Father Christmas, determining who’s naughty and nice.”

Apollo frowned in confusion.

Grantaire sighed and proceeded to explain the themes and traditions of a modern Christmas. Apollo listened, silently enraptured. It was a nice story to share, even if Grantaire was unwaveringly sure that Apollo would eventually discover something insincere or corrupt about the over-commercialised holiday.

“So what has this to do with fate?”

“What I’m trying to say is that fate can’t pick and choose. It can’t let only the good live.”

“I don’t see why not,” Apollo said indignantly, “If I were fate, I would.”

Grantaire didn’t doubt this. If anyone ought to be gifted with the power of Sight, it was Apollo. Grantaire was certain only someone like Apollo would use it for unshakable good.

In some ways, with these powers, Apollo was fate.

He was what determined the fate of that woman. Apollo had, through his actions, chosen her fate. Grantaire could be nothing other than admiring. Not that he mentioned it _._

“There will always be bad people,” Grantaire said, back in the conversation. “They can’t just be eradicated by willpower.”

Apollo rolled the eye, “I know _that_. But I would hope the forces of the universe would be biased towards the good.”

“Well, that’s Karma. But it’s shit. Terrible people live long, happy lives and good people work hard and die alone and penniless.”

Apollo snorted, “I know all this. I know, but I can still hope the odds are slightly in our favour.” _Your favour_ , Grantaire thought bitterly, thinking of himself. “Even if they’re not we have to do what we can to make it so.”

Grantaire wanted to argue, would have done, but couldn’t in light of what had just happened on the crossing. Instead he said, “What I’m trying to say is that they’ll always be a bad guy, even if it’s in the form of a speeding car. Remember I mentioned Hitler?”

Apollo huffed and went to argue.

“I’ll take that as a yes. Just listen. I read this book once, you know, working in a library and all. Anyway, in the book someone goes back in time and poisons the well at Hitler’s home in his childhood or something and he drinks it and dies. Or his parents drank it and he was never born? Either way, nothing he ever did happened. I can’t remember the timeline but whatever the point stands. When the person gets back to the present to see the utopian world his actions have created he finds it worse than ever. Someone else, more evil, took Hitler’s place. The series of events played out for the worst and instead of the world working together to rise against a common enemy, it was left splintered.”

Apollo argued, “But that doesn’t mean anything, it’s just a work of fiction. There’s no fact behind it.”

Grantaire gave Apollo a reproachful look, “Look. It’s just an example. There’s no fact in supposing fate exists in the first place, this is all hypothetical. What I’m trying to say is that, sure, you can do what you can but you will never rid the world of evil.”

Apollo became the epitome of righteousness, squaring up to Grantaire with a solemn expression, “Doesn’t mean I can’t try.”

***

At the time Grantaire had ribbed and bickered with Apollo about their differing opinions of the state of humanity, Apollo growing defensive and Grantaire growing frustrated. However, lying in bed that night, having already agreed (with shockingly little genuine fight) to go to London with Apollo tomorrow, Grantaire addressed the truth.

He might think that Apollo was an idealist, an altruist and in many ways, naïve. It was infuriating beyond repair. Yet Grantaire found himself believing that if anyone could change the world for the better then it would be Apollo.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> The book Grantaire is talking about is called Making History by Stephen Fry. I, like Grantaire, can not remember the details or the ending only that it was interesting and clearly stuck with me. Also, the protagonist falls for another man in the new world so what's not to like.


	3. Chapter 3

“I thought you hated him?” Éponine asked, as she blow-dried her long dark hair upside down in the bathroom doorway. She was wearing patterned harem pants and a black bra with cherries on it. Nothing else. Grantaire really wished she simply wouldn’t do this.

She had to shout to allow for Grantaire to hear her over the hot air. He pretended that he couldn’t.

Finally, she huffily shut it off and flipped the hair back over. Grantaire couldn’t see the benefits to doing it upside down but then he was a philistine.

“So you like him now?” She took a different, possibly more vexing, approach but her expression spoke of knowing she had been ignored.

“Like him?” Grantaire aimed for affronted. “He is the most utterly irritating person ever to breathe air; however, he can see the future so he has some passable qualities.”

Grantaire had explained the events of the night before to an intrigued Éponine over breakfast. She was understandably very sceptical but Grantaire didn’t care all too much. He knew what he had seen.

“And he’s cute,” she stated, before adding, “If you enjoy both prophecy and piracy. Will he invite you sailing on the seven seas next?”

 “Ha Ha,” Grantaire drawled stonily. “I doubt I’d laugh at all without _you_ around.” He was particularly sulky this morning and was not letting up any time soon. Perhaps it was the fact that Éponine had chosen to mock his uncharacteristic show of faith or perhaps it was that earlier in the week he had asked her to join him on any ‘fieldtrips’ with Apollo and that on telling her they were going to London today she had decided to cash-in and come. He didn’t know if he could cope with them both for a four-hour round-trip. The thought alone was appalling.

She shot him a serious look that seemingly came out of nowhere, his comment clearly putting her back up, “Don’t you think you’re getting too involved. I think you should be trying to get him help rather than encouraging him.” Éponine appeared to be of the opinion that the operation had resulted in some form of mental illness and that Apollo needed professional help rather than a fieldtrip to London. Incidentally, she thought Grantaire’s allowing for it was just him being too weak-willed, or smitten, to point this out to Apollo. _Criticism, a sure-fire way to improve his mood._

“You don’t understand,” Grantaire said blandly. The truth was that she didn’t. Éponine was looking at it from an outsider’s point of view. Her comments and derision were only logical given her information. Grantaire wasn’t in the mood to listen to logical falsehoods; he had a hellish day ahead of him as it was.

“Maybe not but I think you’re in out of your depth.”

He snorted. _You could say that again_.

Thankfully she decided to put on a top at this point.

“Listen, if you are going to snip and judge all day then don’t come. It’s a Sunday. It’s the weekend. I’ll do what I want on my day off,” he said as an ultimatum, pulling on his coat to make for the door.

She stared him down and said, “I’ll do the same then and I’m not missing this.” She also pulled on her coat in defiance but added, “But I’ll play nice.”

“Fine,” he muttered as he waited for her to ram on some shoes.

He went to open the front door and she bellowed, “Parlay!” making him jump and scowl at her. She just innocently shrugged and said, “We must honour the code!”

“Oh shut the fuck up, will you.”

***

Apollo was waiting at the station when they arrived, standing ramrod straight and looking down the street to critically eye the zebra crossing from last night.

At their approach, he turned and said, “I think that there shouldn’t be a zebra crossing there at all. With the way the road is I think they should make it into lights.” _Apparently, this is how we greet people nowadays._

It wasn’t worth the oxygen it would take to criticise him. He would only give his look of appalled consternation at Grantaire’s apparent lack of concern for the layout of the highways.

Grantaire regarded the distant crossing and sighed, “I dunno, man. Why don’t you write to the council or something?”

“Oh, I will. I’ve already drafted the letter. I just need to type it up and to look up the address,” Apollo spoke as though this was usual behaviour for a twenty-something in the early hours of a Sunday morning. Grantaire wondered if he had even slept.

“Oh goody,” Grantaire said sardonically. “That’ll be a treat for tomorrow, I imagine.”

Apollo, as was becoming the norm, chose not to dignify this with a response, instead turning to Éponine and saying, “Hello, good to see you again. Thank you for agreeing to help us.”

“That’s okay,” she said modestly. “Happy to help.”

Grantaire coughed and looked pointedly at Éponine, who at least had the good grace to look slightly guilty. _Where’s your pirate code now?_

Apollo’s honesty, directness and determination possessed a strange power of persuasion. It was as though all who faced him were to some degree bowed into a form of geniality towards him. It was potentially more powerful than the gift of prophecy.

***

Once settled on the train, after suffering a lengthy palaver with the tickets, Éponine asked, “So, did you find much on amnesia?”

“Not really,” Apollo lamented from his window seat, today in the red coat with some dark blue trousers. “I mean, yes, but not anything relevant to what is happening to me.”

“We sort of did,” Grantaire said defensively; he liked to think arbitrary stints of research were one of his few skill sets.

“Well, we learnt a lot but not a lot about me.”

They fell into an unplanned and rather uncomfortable silence.

The truth was that no one really knew what to say to each other. Grantaire, for once in his miserable life, was actually in the position to control and drive the conversation. However, he had no idea how. It seemed rude to chat with Éponine without including Apollo, yet inclusion was difficult when in terms of idle chatter, he was both stunted and disinterested. The truth was Grantaire didn’t really know enough about Apollo to have a conversation about anything other than what they’d been investigating and the related topics. Similarly, it was inappropriate to speak to Apollo about the events of last night in front of Éponine since she had been absent and was consequently distrustful of it. For some reason unbeknownst to Grantaire he found himself not wanting to open Apollo up to ridicule. At least, from ridicule not screened or distributed by Grantaire himself.

It was just him being a good human being. It was only decent.

Grantaire shuffled in his seat. Apollo intercepted his gaze at he tried to look past him out the window. He didn’t look expectant but he didn’t look quite satisfied either. _Damn him_.

“Where are we even going?” Grantaire asked purposefully. Let us all speak business, wear ourselves out and then take a nice long nap until we arrive.

“I spoke to the doctor in the hospital yesterday. I meant to tell you about it last night when I came over,” Éponine, who had been thankfully out at said time, now looked both alarmed and interested at this intel. She remained silently startled as Apollo spoke. “…but we got waylaid. Anyway, they told me which hospital I was transferred from. I thought we should go there and take a look. We can ask some questions and hopefully fill in some of the blanks,” Apollo robotically explained as though he feared Éponine needed filling in in minute detail.

Grantaire flapped an arm dismissively, “Okay, okay. I figured. We’re not bloody half-wits. What hospital?”

“Oh,” Apollo puckered but still passed Grantaire the notepad on an open page. It was the first time Grantaire had looked at it closely. The thick card cover was already fraying in the corners revealing its white papery innards. Apollo impatiently pointed to the page on which he had drawn a map. It was more a diagram in honesty, all the lines had been drawn with a ruler and the landmarks were colour-coded. There were arrows and instructions and references. _Nauseating_.

“What on God’s Earth _is_ this?”

“Directions,” Apollo said earnestly.

Grantaire thought to show the map to Éponine but he didn’t feel she was familiar enough with Apollo to be allowed to mock his organisational follies. That was Grantaire’s job.

“You’ve drawn a map? By hand?”

“What is so strange about that?” Apollo’s frown was already in full force.

“You can just use Google maps. It’s way easier,” he tried to explain, as though imparting the secrets of the universe.

“But I can’t work out the phone” – _can’t be bothered to_ – “And besides I need a map to write onto so I can locate and note down adjacent landmarks and findings. To learn the area.”

Grantaire stared back at the map in disbelief, “You need a key for that?”

Apollo snatched the notepad back, “Did you even read it?”

“Yes I read it. King’s College Hospital. Conveniently not very central but do not fear, dear Apollo, I, your trustee servant, will get you there unscathed with or without a map written in tiny block capitals,” he made to bow half way through but found himself laughing by the end.

Apollo snorted. It was really the only word for it.

Grantaire interpreted it as a repressed snicker but it was most likely a gesture of indignation. The fact Apollo subsequently looked out the window with his arms crossed for a full 10 minutes was somewhat telling. _Because this was less awkward_.

Éponine was little comfort since her reaction had left her eyebrows somewhere in her hairline.

Basically, it had all gone to shit and they weren’t even half way there yet.

Éponine then tried to use said eyebrows as a conversational tool. She raised them consecutively, dipped them, wiggled them and seemingly tried to point at Apollo with them. Grantaire was disinclined to put effort into deciphering this frankly bizarre display. He gawped mockingly and shrugged in deliberate confusion.

Éponine slapped a hand over her face in open exasperation, wearily shaking her head.

She got out her phone and texted him from across the table.

**Éponine: He came to our flat?**

Grantaire made to read the message in front of her and then put the phone in his pocket with a defiant smirk.

She kicked him.

He clutched the injured limb in silent outrage and scowled at her innocent face.

He got the phone back out and, with no further argument, replied to the text. _Defeat had a bitter taste._

**Grantaire: That hurt. I despise you and your ways.**

**Grantaire: But yah. Why?**

**Éponine: Whatever. I told you you were getting too involved.**

**Grantaire: And I didn’t deny that.**

**Éponine: I think you seriously need to have a word with him about speaking to someone.**

**Grantaire: Where do you get the impression he listens to me?**

**Éponine: He asks for your advice and opinion.**

**Grantaire: Yah. Like ‘Igor? Google this for me’ and I’m like ‘Yesss Master’ I’m his research lackey.**

**Éponine: Deranged. That’s what you are!**

Éponine jammed the phone back into her tiny leather backpack and declared that she was going to the toilet.

“Thanks for that slice of life,” Grantaire remarked to her retreating back.

Once Éponine was well out of earshot Apollo turned on Grantaire. Grantaire was certain Apollo was going to accuse them of talking behind his back, or worse resume the map debate. Instead he divulged in a conspiratorial whisper, “Just before we get to the A&E department at Kings a man is rushed in from a collision and in theatre he dies before they can save him.”

Grantaire was entirely unprepared for this information. He stared at Apollo in shock. Apollo, seeing this, resumed, “I only tell you so that when we get there you will know to look out for it.”

“Are you going to try to stop it?” Grantaire blurted, before lowering his voice to match Apollo’s tone. The train wasn’t busy but it was not a commonplace discussion and it was best not to be overheard.

“We can’t,” Apollo confessed mournfully. “The accident has already happened. By the time we arrive he is already in surgery.”

“What happened?”

“Two cars collided at a roundabout by the sounds of what the paramedic says to the doctors,” Apollo was drumming anxiously on the table top.

“You saw them speaking?”

“Not saw, as such, again it’s in my mind’s eye. I’m aware that conversation was had, or should I say will be had.”

“Jeez,” Grantaire expelled, running fingers into his knotty hair. “Are all your premonitions so morbid?”

Apollo looked appraisingly at Grantaire before his face fell, “Apparently so.”

For a moment both men were silent as they reflected on this.

Apollo spoke first, in a rapid stream, “Don’t tell Éponine about this. If you do tell her she will react badly.”

Grantaire flushed slightly, had Apollo sensed Éponine’s scepticism?

“What makes you say that?” He asked casually.

“Because if I hadn’t told you not to tell her you would have told her,” he gave an implicative expression to suggest he knew this as more than just a suspicion, “And she reacts badly, gets annoyed.”

“She is annoyed? At _what_?”

“At you. She tells you that you need to have a word with me,” Apollo explained, seemingly unfazed by the suggestion of this.

“And do I?”

“Well, no. You will just argue about me while I’m sitting here. I’d rather that didn’t happen so just don’t mention it,” Apollo flippantly said.

“Are you not bothered by the fact that that would happen though?”

“No, not particularly. She has no reason to believe this. We have both seen it in action so I don’t expect her opinion to change overnight.”

Why was Apollo so irksome and yet so reasonable?

“But this is your chance to prove-”

Éponine was sidling up the aisle and Apollo was shaking his head emphatically.

Grantaire remained begrudgingly silent.

***

The rest of the journey was actually – shockingly – more pleasant. _Thank the Baby Jesus._

It involved Éponine making an extremely good suggestion.

“Apollo? Have you tried to make any contact online?”

“What do you mean?” Apollo asked openly.

“There are missing person websites online, have you looked to see if you have been listed as missing? Surely someone is looking for you,” Éponine imparted her rational wisdom.

Grantaire spared Apollo an awestruck look. The other man too looked as though this were a revelation.

Éponine muttered, “Men, so blind.”

This jerked Grantaire out of his brief moment of unswerving admiration for Éponine and all things that she was and stood for.

“Hey, I’ll have you know that that is an inappropriate thing to say to Apollo,” Grantaire gestured with exaggerated outrage at the eyepatch.

Apollo actually laughed. It was arresting enough to stop Grantaire in his tracks. _Apollo,_ The _Apollo, laughed at something Grantaire said_. It was unfathomable. Clearly he was just full of merriment when faced with a good suggestion.

“I can see just fine, thank you very much,” he commented good-naturedly. He then turned back to Éponine, “Could you elaborate?”

She lifted a shoulder in a half shrug, “Someone will know you and obviously want to find you. They go online and make a profile with your details and picture, and people can look through and see who is missing. Grantaire found you so I guess you must be missing from somewhere else. Then you can contact them through the website or they give their details so you can be reunited.”

Apollo’s face was the picture of delight. This whole conversation had changed his entire demeanour into something bright and optimistic. Hopeful. It was kind of nice to see him so excited for once.

“That’s brilliant Éponine. That will surely work. Where do I go to look?”

“Online is the best place,” she advised.

“Thank you, Éponine. I appreciate your help.” Then rounding on Grantaire, Apollo said, “Can you show me tomorrow?” His face was so hopeful, his expression so unclouded and positive.

Grantaire felt inclined to sulk about how Éponine had rocked up and given one piece of advice and was getting showered with Apollo’s praise. However, he considered himself mature enough to rise above this, or he just didn’t care enough. _Obviously, the latter_ …

Directly in contradiction to all of the above, he immediately said, “Sure, whatever, but I hope you know that it involves scrolling through endless faces of missing people.”

“Do many get found?” Apollo inquired with a thoughtful edge. It reeked of being the start of another of his crusades.

“Err, I dunno. I don’t know the statistics off the top of my head or anything. I imagine a percentage do,” Grantaire stumbled over an answer, not wanting to say what he really thought which was ‘no, most don’t’.

A sunny Apollo seemed to be worth the white lies.

It was even worth Éponine’s significant look from across the table.

***

By the time they had arrived at Kings Cross Station, ushered an overly interested and dawdling Apollo to Euston and boarded the Victoria line to Brixton it was already midday.

“I don’t recognise this,” Apollo claimed as they sat wedged into a busy carriage like sardines in a tin.

“You don’t recognise the suffocating press of bodies surrounding you or you don’t recognise the charms of the London Underground?” Grantaire asked grumpily, unwinding the sweaty scarf from around his neck in the hopes of obtaining some air in the foreseeable future. It was moments like this that he remembered why he remained living in a small town and working as a librarian. _People_.

“Neither,” Apollo mused, looking with interest at a mother trying to calm a grumbling toddler on her lap.

“There’s nothing like making new memories, eh?”

Apollo glanced seriously at him, “That’s all I can do. So, yes.”

“Do you recognise the appearance of the Underground in general?” Éponine asked quickly. “The aesthetic of it.”

“Yeah. If we had showed you a pic of an empty carriage would you have known it was from London and not, say, the New York metro?”

“I don’t know. I suppose I’m not surprised by the appearance and I understood how the ticket barriers worked so I must have ridden the Underground before,” Apollo revealed, sparing the toddler a smile as she looked his way.

“That doesn’t mean a lot in the scheme of things but every bit of information helps, I guess,” Grantaire reasoned.

***

They reached the hospital just before 1pm due to Apollo having to stop several times on the walk from the station to look at their surroundings and try to trigger any sort of recognition.

So far to no avail.

Additionally, coping with Apollo in the A&E department of a busy London hospital was almost farcical. Watching him try to explain to the triage nurse that 'no he did not need medical assistance' but 'yes he did need to see a doctor and a specific one at that' and 'no he didn't know this doctor's name' could have been comical had the outcome not involved Grantaire having to pacifyingly step in. It would seem, and perhaps this wasn't news to anyone, that Apollo lacked tact in dealing with procedural barriers. He seemed affronted that there were obstacles in the way of obtaining his preferred outcome. The word ridiculous was uttered more than once.

This became increasingly maddening when, after Grantaire had finally explained and smoothed over the situation, the nurse asked for Apollo's name. Naturally this was to look in the notes and find out who he had seen but resulted in a second bout of profound confusion and general disruption.

After some artful wrangling on Grantaire’s part accompanied by some fervent gesticulation from Apollo, they were finally placed in a booth to wait for one of the doctors who had been working that night.

“That was…” Éponine rummaged for the word as they all sat wedged awkwardly in the cramped space, “Err, eventful?” _When is anything with Apollo not?_

Apollo was resolutely indifferent to all implied criticism when it came to his methods. ‘It worked so deal with it’ was his manifesto. Even if those methods involved a lot of damage control.

“Did you hear what she said?” He asked Grantaire with singular determination.

“About the doctor?” Grantaire grumbled from his creaky plastic chair.

“Yeah. She said they were assisting in theatre,” he then raised both eyebrows in an unequivocally implicative gesture.

“Oh, yeah, right.”

“What?” Éponine asked shrewdly.

Apollo explained the premonition he had had. Grantaire could hardly see why telling her now made any difference but was proven wrong when instead of having a go at him she just stood with her arms crossed, her lips pulled into a thin line. He supposed it was because she didn’t want to create a scene in case someone really had died in theatre.

Regardless, Grantaire mouthed ‘ _fun sponge’_ at Apollo while she was turned away.

Apollo quirked an eyebrow.

It could be interpreted as playful. Or incredulous.

Grantaire liked to pretend it was the former. _A man can dream_.

Some time passed. With it was a mellowing Éponine who rested a heavy head on Grantaire’s shoulder and an anxious Apollo who periodically peeled back the curtain to peer out.

What a way to spend a Sunday.

Eventually a doctor emerged from amongst the drapery which seemed to both relieve and startle Apollo.

She surveyed him, “Oh, it’s you.” She didn’t seem delighted to see Apollo but then what authority figure was?

“Yes,” he replied cautiously. “I recognise you too.”

“That’s a first,” Grantaire remarked. “You should be flattered.”

She didn’t look in the slightest bit flattered or even remotely amused.

“Is this about your eye?” The doctor requested. She seemed notably harassed.

“No, it’s about how I have no memory of anything prior to last Sunday.”

Unsurprisingly her expression didn't soften at this information, instead she looked increasingly troubled.

“But you remember me?” She asked, the beginnings of a full-on frown now forming. It was intriguing to see the infuriated frown turned on Apollo for once.

“Well yes,” he responded testily. “Although I don’t remember all that much about you. I just recognise your face.”

“That’s because you were passing in and out of consciousness at the time, not to mention one of your eyes was bleeding quite profusely. You were in a lot of pain. I am surprised you remember me at all.” She looked thoughtful for a moment and then added, “There was no sign that you had suffered any head trauma at the time.”

“We don’t think I did,” Apollo allowed. “Aside from remembering nothing they could find nothing wrong with my head.”

The doctor displayed notable relief.

Apollo continued, “Did anyone ask me any questions about myself? Did I remember anything at the time?”

The doctor shook her head emphatically, “When I saw you we didn’t have a name. They had already checked for that on your arrival.”

“What about personal effects? ID?” Éponine interjected.

“You had nothing on you like that. You were in your pyjamas by the looks of it.”

“Pyjamas?” Grantaire said, shocked. “You managed to stab yourself in the eye while in bed?”

The doctor regarded the display coolly and said, “The injury was not from being stabbed. This was a precise cut.” She looked as though she wouldn’t continue and would very much like not to but then disclosed, “Someone had begun to remove the conjunctiva of your left eye around the inner corner. It could mean a few things but it suggests someone could have been attempting to, well, remove the eye. At least, that is a possibility.”

Apollo’s mouth fell agape in a rare show of bare emotion before he gasped, “Remove my eye?” As he spoke he subconsciously reached for the eyepatch in a protective gesture.

“Yes, by the looks of things but as I said this is not the only possibility,” the doctor spoke frankly.

“Did it look like they knew what they had been doing?” Grantaire queried over an appalled Apollo.

“It’s difficult to say,” she then paused and sized up Apollo as if to determine whether he was ready to hear what she had to say but his face was already returning to its usual dogged expression. “I am not an ocular expert but it appeared they had some knowledge of the procedure. However, the globe was damaged suggesting they either had limited skill and precision or that they were interrupted. Obviously, if this was what was being attempted it was in some way interrupted since you still have the eye.”

“But why would someone remove a person’s eye?” Apollo asked.

“In all honesty, our first theory was that you had paid someone to remove the eye for cosmetic reasons and that perhaps you had had second thoughts. It could also have explained why you wouldn’t tell us what happened to the eye.”

“Why would he remove his own eye?” Éponine said in disgruntled alarm.

It occurred to Grantaire that she had not seen Apollo’s eye and so couldn't fully understand.

Apollo swept in, “You know I said I have a defect? It isn't a purely visual defect. It's also, well, aesthetic. Its incidental anyhow as I wouldn’t have attempted that.”

“Or you can’t remember attempting it,” the doctor added. The woman had some gall, Grantaire thought.

“Why on Earth would he choose to have a gaping socket over an eyeball?” Grantaire scoffed.

The doctor didn’t appear to have an answer for that, instead saying, “It did seem unlikely since the ambulance picked you up from a commercial street while you were in pyjamas and not in possession of a wallet or a phone.”

Everyone was silent for a few beats. It really was a conundrum as to what on Earth Apollo had been up to. _Clearly a pretty fucked up guy_.

The doctor eventually said, with a professional weightiness, “I assume you’ve been to see a councillor about your memory loss.”

Éponine kicked Grantaire in what could only be interpreted as an ‘I told you so’. Grantaire ignored her and masked his pain. It was a heavy cross to bear.

Apollo scowled at the very suggestion of this, “I went for the first session. It wasn’t very productive.”

“In what way?”

“It was all about coping mechanisms and dealing with loss. That doesn’t help me find out where I came from and how I came to be here. Dealing with loss? I need practical solutions not emotional balms,” Apollo dismissively explained, his hands gesturing forcefully.

The doctor seemed to think this was quite a reasonable excuse if her silence was anything to go on but Éponine wasn’t happy in the slightest.

“You were offered a councillor and you didn’t follow up with the sessions? How can you know after just one?”

“I wanted to go looking for answers not sit and talk about hypothetical situations. I have found out a lot more with Grantaire’s help than with any councillor.”

Grantaire swelled with an unfamiliar pride at being spoken of so favourably.

“Grantaire’s a librarian. He’s not a medical professional. He knows jack shit about amnesia.” _Well, that moment was short lived_.

“Granted, the councillor could have taught me about amnesia but frankly I don’t care. It wouldn’t have got me any closer to finding anything out. I want to find out where I came from, not learn how to cope with not being where I came from.”

Éponine looked as though she wanted to continue the discussion until Apollo was worn down into agreement but what she didn’t know is that hell would sooner freeze over. She would eventually learn of her foolishness and realise that once Apollo was decided, it became decree.

At this moment, the doctor meaningfully cleared her throat which silenced both parties and postponed all interpersonal revelations.

“Do you have any more questions for me?”

Grantaire, the only person not halfway through a petty argument about the value of psychiatric intervention, asked, “Why was he sent to a hospital outside of London?”

“We did all the procedures we could here in A&E to stabilise him but he needed to see an ocular surgeon. We sent him to the nearest hospital with a specialist available to perform an emergency operation at that time on a Sunday morning.”

It seemed odd to Grantaire that they would move someone so far at such a critical time.

“And why wasn’t he transferred back when he recovered from the operation?”

“That’s not me to say,” she said simply. Then she looked between Apollo and Éponine as though to check that the situation was resolved and suggested, “If I was you I’d go speak to the paramedics who were called to the scene. I can give you their names.”

She retrieved a pen from inside her labcoat and glanced about for something to write on. As if on cue Apollo was on hand, pad held open and upwards on an empty page like it were a sacred manuscript ready to be blessed with words of wisdom. Grantaire wasn’t even sure he’d seen the guy move. He must be getting slow or something. Apollo was just too proficient for one to trouble themselves with keeping up with him.

***

Locating specific paramedics and ambulance staff in a hospital was less like looking for a needle in a haystack, since at least needles were stationary, and more like looking for a particular bicycle in Amsterdam but while someone was still riding it. A wild goose chase was an apt expression for the dramatics that followed. It was hauntingly reminiscent to the chase scenes in _Scooby Doo_ with everyone running in and out of doors along the same corridor but all at different times so they just missed one another.

The primary positive was that the knowledge obtained from the doctor had left Apollo strangely pensive. Sure, sure this was _terrible_ but the brief cessation to the endless in-fighting was close to euphoria. Diplomacy while inquiring for directions was at an all-time high.

Eventually, most probably by the Grace of God, they managed to end up in the same place, at the same time as a paramedic called Pete. Pete was a clean-shaven man in his late-twenties with an overtly sunny disposition and an inexplicable tongue piercing.

Pete told them he could drive them to the place they had found Apollo since his shift was over. Grantaire had been riddled with anticipation at riding in the back of an ambulance only to be crestfallen by the substandard experience of being wedged into the back of Pete’s Fiat Punto. _Life was just one disappointment after another._

This was only slightly remedied by Pete’s plethora of gory anecdotal stories that he willingly shared with both suspense and vigour. His driving also possessed suspense and vigour but it left Grantaire less enthralled and more touching cloth.

There was a near miss with a double decker bus but Grantaire’s life only briefly flashed before his eyes. _So_ _no biggie_.

Apollo, man of the iron stomach, did manage to ask Pete a few key questions as they were propelled at break-neck speed through the London streets. Though mostly fruitless, he did manage to ascertain that he had been unconscious when the ambulance arrived at 3.45am, had had nothing on him including no eyepatch and had been found by three young women who had been walking home from a night out.

The identity of the women remained unknown. The fact that no names had been taken seemed slightly lax but Grantaire supposed getting the patient to hospital had been the main priority.

Regardless, Apollo appeared downcast at the discovery of yet another dead-end.

“Here you are,” Pete declared as he bounced the car onto the curb, parking on the double yellow. He gestured to the nondescript strip of pavement they were now half mounted onto. It was outside a travel agent.

“Thanks mate,” Grantaire said in earnest as he crawled out of the backseat and reunited himself with dryland. Pete had turned out to be kind of okay despite his bad driving.

“Does he actually drive the ambulance?” Apollo murmured with concern after Pete had pulled away, flashing them manically. It was what everyone had been thinking.

“He said he was a paramedic, not the driver,” Éponine said in a tone that was two parts assuring, one part hopeful.

“Let’s hope so. I’m gonna need a bloody paramedic after that ordeal,” Grantaire imparted with a snort.

Apollo tsked but gave a small smile as he turned to survey the street.

There was really not very much to see.

“So?” Grantaire began, “At that time of night, I’m guessing it was quite quiet here. There aren’t any clubs on the street itself, it would have just been passers-by.”

Apollo nodded as he gazed about.

“These girls probably found you unconscious here.”

“Unless they were the ones who attacked him,” Éponine suggested.

“Then why was he here in pyjamas in the first place? Surely the injury and the fact he was here at all are linked. This hardly seems like the setting for amateur surgery.”

Éponine shrugged defensively, “Fine. It still can’t be ruled out.”

“Fair. But in the event in wasn’t them, then who? The question is, did you bring yourself here or did someone else?”

Apollo fixed his gaze back onto the others, “Keep going.”

“With what?”

“The suggestions. They’re all helpful.”

Grantaire flustered, now put on the spot, “I dunno. A little input could help matters, or whatever. Get the creative juices flowing, so to speak. Quid pro quo and whatnot.” _Why was it he could only spew nonsense when actually called upon to impart wisdom?_

Apollo didn’t appear to acknowledge it either way. He nodded absently again and rubbed his chin looking down at the paving slabs as if expecting to find the chalked outline of a human form.

Grantaire waited. Éponine gravitated towards the adverts listed in the travel agent window. It was such an innocuous space that Grantaire couldn’t blame her.

“Why here?” Grantaire blurted, back on form, unable to figure out why this just didn’t fit.

“I don’t think I was supposed to be here,” Apollo finally said. “I think my being here was accidental.” He cast his eye about and added, “I could tell you nothing about this place, only that I know I have been here before.”

“That’s good news,” Éponine commented, maintaining a distance from the tasty travel offers by virtue alone. “Should we walk about and see if you get that feeling elsewhere?”

“Okay, good plan.”

They began to wander up the street. There was a baseline hum of hopefulness vibrating between them, perched on the edge of a breakthrough. This became a steady buzz when they approached a corner and Apollo predicted that a small florist would be on the next corner and found that there indeed was.

Éponine couldn’t get behind the premonitions or the lack of therapeutic intervention but the obvious unfurling of memories was something she supported wholeheartedly now it was underway. When Apollo had been correct, her dimples had nearly cracked her face she had been so delighted.

As they stood and considered the familiarity of the bus shelter on the corner of the next street a voice broke into their contented bubble.

“It’s you!”

They all turned to reveal a man standing a few feet away. He wore torn jeans, a light jacket in a shade of tan and an expression of open surprise bordering on alarm. It was as though he had seen the dead rise from the ground and begin to plague the Earth.

“You know me?” Apollo asked in unabashed excitement, immediately gravitating towards the man.

“Err,” the man seemed to be without a proper response, silenced by the directness of the question.  He went to speak, “I thought you-” but seemed to think better of it.

Then without warning he spun back the way he had come and began to run at full pelt.

Apollo didn’t need to be told twice. One second he was stood there looking shocked and next thing he was in hot pursuit. The dude was like The Flash, nothing but a blur of red. He sprinted up the street dodging loitering bystanders before the others had even registered it.

Grantaire didn’t like to make a habit of running, no less in public, but he feared Apollo wouldn’t know what to do on catching the guy. Therefore, he took a measured jog that serviced little more than a brisk walk but gave the illusion of effort.

When Grantaire rounded the corner at the end of the road, Apollo could be seen in the distance frantically looking about himself.

Grantaire slowed and ambled over. As he approached he said, “Lose him? I have to say I’m fucking surprised. You can certainly haul arse.”

“He disappeared at the corner. I didn’t see where he went.”

“If only you could predict the future, eh?”

Apollo scowled, “That’s hardly the issue here.” He continued to glance around eying passers-by with suspicion. “He clearly knows these streets better than I do.”

“There’s no question of that,” Grantaire mused as he watched Apollo fret.

“It would seem,” Apollo said, coming to a stop in front of Grantaire, “that he might also know _me_ better than I do.”

Grantaire shrugged in agreement, “I’m not gonna lie to you, it’s a possibility.”

It was at this moment that Apollo met breaking point.

He paced away from Grantaire and then, without proper warning, crouched in the middle of the pavement with his face buried in his hands. He preceded to soundless run his fingers through his hair, tugging it at its ends.

He seemed to be oblivious to everything but his own frustration. A woman nearly tripped over him, expelling a string of creative expletives. She wandered off shaking her head when her complaints fell on deaf ears.

Éponine, who hadn’t even tried to run, came to a stop next to Grantaire, who was stood watching Apollo with an open mouth, unsure of how to help other than vaguely shielding him from further pedestrians.

“What’s he doing?” She asked in a stage whisper.

“Reacting,” Grantaire said evasively.

“So, he didn’t catch the guy?” She surmised as she regarded Apollo with a sympathetic frown. “That’s a shame.”

Grantaire nodded solemnly. He didn’t really feel like discussing it with Éponine while Apollo was crouched on the floor in distress. It was also a great shame that he had no idea what to do for the man. He distantly wondered if perhaps there was a chance he was stunted in some capacity. It wasn’t difficult, to extend oneself to help someone else in a basic human way but it felt insurmountable. Should he hug Apollo? Pat him on the back? Extend heartfelt condolences? Tell a funny anecdotal story? Offer a hot beverage? What the fuck do people usually do when the strange, amnesiac psychic you picked up at your library job has a mental breakdown on a public walkway?

Éponine was squatting on the floor next to Apollo before Grantaire could come to any final decisions.

“Hey,” she said softly. “Do you want to find a bench to sit on?”

Apollo mumbled something into his arms, which were now folded across his knees.

After some deliberation Grantaire begrudgingly joined them on the floor in a low squat. They must have been quite the sight, huddled together in a disjointed trio.

It was no less awkward at street level and Grantaire’s knees had made a suspicious cracking noise on the way down. _Excellent_.

Grantaire supposed this at least showed some strange solidarity to whatever it was Apollo was doing.

Time stretched.

Eventually Grantaire proclaimed, “Well, this is nice.”

Éponine shot him a warning look.

“I didn’t see you running,” Grantaire muttered defensively. “So much for fitness guru.”

“Yoga is not the same as sprinting,” she retorted insolently.

“Well, I know _that_. Old Usain Bolt over here could teach you a thing or two, though,” Grantaire jerked a thumb in Apollo’s direction.

Apollo peered over his arms and asked in a muffled voice, “Usain Bolt?”

It was encouraging so Grantaire haltingly continued.

“Yeah, he is like this really fast sprinter in the Olympics and won loads of awards and world records,” he tried to explain. “He’s just a really fast dude so it’s just a reference to that.”

Apollo nodded into the crook of his arm.

“Maybe you were a sprinter before. I mean, you don’t strike me as the athletic type but I guess you have some pretty long legs there,” Grantaire rambled to fill the silence, an edge of satire in his tone. “You reckon there’s an athletics club round here we could, like, parade you to and see if they herald us as the saviours of the championships for returning their track star.”

Éponine was staring at him in disbelief. She hissed, “Now is not the time.”

Apollo was also staring, his face now fully out of the folds of the red coat. He didn’t look as though he had been crying but he looked tired and defeated. However, he said, “What is the Olympics?”

Grantaire shot Éponine a look in return. A smug one.

“Well, it’s funny you should ask Apollo, to be honest.” Grantaire began in a mockingly serious tone, jumping at the opportunity to perform in a way he was actually useful. “I don’t know how much you picked up on Apollo in those books but he’s a Greek god. So, in Greek mythology all the gods lived in this place called Olympus. For ease just imagine a big mountain. Well, actually it was called Mount Olympus so yeah it was this fuck off mountain. Anywho, there were twelve main gods and Zeus was the leader and Apollo was one of the twelve, so he lived there. Actually, he was Zeus’ son and had a twin called Artemis. They were all called The Twelve Olympians and they were really powerful and all the people loved them but not that much because they were kind of into interfering but that’s a totally other story.”

Grantaire paused to check his audience was rightly beguiled. Apollo seemed to be listening with quiet interest; Éponine also seemed interested despite pretending otherwise. “So, in classical times they decided to have a series of competitions in honour of the gods. The origins are mixed up with the mythology but basically they all just played sports and said it was for Zeus. They called it The Olympics. Then the Romans happened and eventually they stopped it because they seemed to be set on oppressing the Greeks of all their fun. Read up on that since I get the impression it would tickle your fancy, aside from making you annoyed. But _then_ about 100 odd years ago they started a modern version and loads of athletes from around the world gather to compete every four years in all sorts of sports. It’s quite a big deal for some people, if you like sport, that is.”

On completion of the story he held up his hands in a showy gesture.

Apollo had a strained expression, which combined with the squat would be unflattering on anyone less attractive. He asked, “You named me after a god?”

“Err, yes. What did you think it was?”

“I don’t know, you said it was French sounding.”

“…and topical. Apollo was the God of prophecy, among other things,” Grantaire clarified, on the back foot in the conversation now. 

“Hmm. I see.” Apollo mused, “I didn’t pick up on that.”

“I guess you didn’t read much into the whole history of prophecy thing. Did you think it was just a weird name or something?”

Apollo sighed, “Honestly? Yes. I was more focused on the science of why I couldn’t remember. And you say and do a lot of things that I don’t fully understand, so I just accept a lot of it at face value.”

Grantaire laughed, “That’s very trusting. I should play more pranks on you then.”

Apollo shook his head and huffed in an affable gesture. He cunningly countered, “You can try but I would smite you.”

Grantaire held a hand to his chest in outrage but almost toppled himself over backwards onto his bum. Éponine caught him in the nick of time, rolling him back onto the balls of his feet. It gave the effect of a deranged rocking horse, worsened by his surprised and prolonged laughter at both himself and the glimpse of a slightly fun Apollo.

“When you two are quite done reminiscing about ancient Greece I was going to suggest we go to the police station?”

“Good God, why?” Grantaire exclaimed, still a hint of a laugh in his voice.

“Firstly, because Apollo is clearly from here so we can see if he has been reported missing by someone he knows and secondly, because I don’t particularly feel like squatting in the street for too much longer.”

“Fair enough, but you can’t deny that it _is_ quite riveting,” Grantaire teased.

Éponine ignored him and just stood up, brushing off her jacket.

“That’s a good idea,” Apollo warmly agreed, standing up abruptly, a distinct lack of clicking in his knees.

They both had to help lever Grantaire off the floor since his legs had cramped up. _Old age was ever looming at 28_.

***

Éponine began leading them off down the street with a muttered explanation of having once lived in this area of London. Grantaire didn’t question her further. He knew better than that.

Yet while the men trailed behind, Apollo quietly asked, “Why didn’t she say she lived here? It could have been useful.”

Grantaire shrugged, “The Éponine origin story is one shrouded in mystery.”

Apollo frowned, “Where did you meet her?”

“At school. She said she’d moved from London, so I’m guessing it’s this area.”

Where Éponine had come from was something she was extremely evasive about to the point of outright secrecy. It was only through years of friendship followed by co-habitation that Grantaire had managed to glean any even remotely satisfactory information at all.

When Grantaire was fifteen, one day there had been no Éponine and the next she had been enrolled at Grantaire’s school.

Grantaire had been the guy too embarrassed by overachievement to strive for it. Praise was uncomfortable and difficult to take graciously. Other students would notice, other students would roll their eyes when he put his hand up in class. It was easier to just work enough to coast through, get the grades and get out. However, this was easier said than done though when you enjoyed reading and debating and learning, and recoiled from any sort of personal criticism.

School was a dangerous tightrope to walk, perched on a fence between the teachers and the other students. It was impossible to impress both and yet still difficult to impress either.

Eventually it became easier to try in secret and then act surprised by positive results. ‘ _How did you get such a high score on that test, Grantaire? ‘Fuck knows, I only revised the night before_.’

Knowledge became something to be both coveted and concealed.

It was disheartening.

Then in had walked Éponine.

At fifteen Éponine had been defensive, solitary and oddly studious. Teenagers didn’t understand this pretty, city girl with her dry wit and lack of patience for personal questions. She looked like she was supposed to be popular but spent her time doing copious amounts of homework and fending off any and all attempts at friendship.

Grantaire didn’t necessarily need friendship, not initially. He had been outwardly playing dumb in order to obtain friends on a base level. He just wanted someone to have a decent conversation with.

The acquisition of knowledge became something they pursued together.

However, Grantaire learnt that for Éponine, this was not a quest of the heart but a quest of ambition. This too was disheartening. To learn that other people only strived to learn to jump through the hoops society had built for them.

Many aspects of her personality still perplexed him. She was disdainful of a whole manner of things and yet seemed very keen on recommending Apollo to seek psychological help. Grantaire would not have expected her to be so adamant on this point.

It was a friendship built on trust and mutual benefit so Grantaire had learnt long ago not to pry.

Apollo, however, knew nothing of this. He persistently asked, “Will she know some locals we can speak to?”

“Dude, are you hearing me? _Shrouded in mystery_ ,” Grantaire dragged out the words in emphasis. “I know less about where she came from than I do you. It’s not something she talks about.”

“Where did she live when she moved?” Apollo asked, dodging to a question he presumably thought Grantaire would know the answer to.

“In sheltered housing, I guess. We didn’t have sleepovers or anything.”

“Okay.”

They walked in silence for a good five minutes. It was late afternoon now and shadows were lengthening.

Apollo spoke first, “Grantaire?”

“Yup?”

Apollo continued in a tentative murmur, “I just wanted to thank you for giving me such a thoughtful name. I hadn’t realised that was where it came from. I’m sorry if I seemed unappreciative.”

Grantaire was dumbstruck, shell-shocked. _Who was this imposter?_

He didn’t know what he ought to say, looping back to the issue of struggling to graciously receive praise.

“Err,” he said with his usual level of decorum. “No problem. It’s not a big deal or anything.”

Apollo’s demeanour punctured and his expression grew discerning and cold. Grantaire had been aiming for modesty but that seemed to have backfired.

They didn’t speak for the rest of the walk.

***

At the police station Éponine insisted on staying outside. She stood with her back to the brick wall of the square 1970s building, her shoulders curled in and pulled a cigarette out of a pocket from inside her jacket.

Grantaire hadn’t seen her smoke in at least four years. _Most troubling_.

He raised both eyebrows to her in a tentatively questioning gesture but she gave a non-committal shrug that suggested a lack of desire to talk. He backed off and let her light up.

Apollo had been waiting patiently by the entrance during their exchange, eyeing the traffic in and out of the sliding doors. A girl was leaving, her face streaked in fresh tears. Apollo’s expression was compassionate in a way most people had been trained out of by overexposure.

Once inside, they approached a central desk and exchanged a look to decide who would speak. Apollo’s emphatic plea won out.

“Hello, who do we speak to about missing persons?” Apollo asked with rehearsed efficiency.

A kind-faced lady in her early forties replied, “Are you reporting someone missing?”

Apollo considered before saying, “It is a difficult situation. To summarise, I was found by an ambulance at the side of the road not far from here at the end of last week and I have no memory of anything prior to that. I was found with no identification so I don’t have a name, which is obviously a big problem. I just wanted to know if anyone of my description has been reported missing.”

Surprisingly the lady was, in fact, not surprised. This gave them a sliver of hope but as it turned out it was just experience and professionalism, “Okay,” she said calmly, “I’ll have a look on our database.”

She turned to a computer on the desk to her right and began to type. As she did so she asked, “What street were you found on?”

They didn’t have names but described it. She nodded her understanding.

She peered towards the screen, her eyes flicking back and forth as she scrolled down.

The men shared an anticipative glance.

After a couple of minutes she looked up and inquired, “No one has made a report that contains your picture. Do you have an idea of your age?”

Apollo looked straight to Grantaire who looked straight back to the lady. It was an unequivocal show of _fuck knows_.

She nodded again, “I guessed in your mid to late twenties when I was looking through but I don’t see anything that meets your physical description either.” She leaned forward slightly to peek over the desk and take more of Apollo in.

 _Yes, yes he’s pretty_. _Get an eyeful._

“I’d say you’re about 5’11” and of slim to medium build. Blond, blue eyes, European descent-“

“I speak French,” Apollo blurted on remembering.

“Okay,” she was unfazed by the interruption and returned to the screen to scroll a bit more. A little more time passed.

Finally she said, “Nothing is coming up that looks like it matches your description.” She frowned, “I’m sorry. It would help if I had more to go on but I understand the situation dictates that information is limited.”

Apollo sighed, shoulders slumped, “Thank you for your help, I appreciate your time.” He went to turn away, dejected. It was demoralising to see.

“Wait,” the lady entreated. “I can make a report for you. I know it’s unusual since you aren’t necessarily reporting a person missing but I can take your details and your description and if anyone comes looking for you then we can notify you.”

Apollo’s face changed in an instant, “Could you? I would really appreciate it.”

“Of course, it’s no problem at all. I’ll just need a few details of how to reach you, and to take some better statistics and description. Obviously, we won’t share your details without notifying you.”

Apollo excitedly turned to Grantaire and asked, “Yes?”

Grantaire shrugged, “Go for it.” He turned to the lady, interjecting himself into the conversation, “Will it show up online for the public to see?”

“It can do. I can notify the Missing People website. It’s more difficult without a name but if we can supply a photograph, description, date you went missing and search area, then people can search on the website based on those criteria.”

“Okay, that would be brilliant. Thank you,” Apollo said brightly.

The lady directed them to another room where they met with a tolerant young man who filled in some forms with them, took Apollo’s photo and composed a description of Apollo to put with the details of his disappearance.

They were in the station for all of 45 minutes and there had been no issues, even so close to the end of the day on a Sunday.

As they left, an officer in a smart black suit, who was clearly of a high rank, passed them in the foyer and wished them a good evening.

Tickle Grantaire impressed.

“How were the pigs?” Éponine asked as they approached her now crouched form propped against the foot of the wall.

“Oi, we’ll have none of that talk,” Grantaire exclaimed in half jest. “I think you’ll find, if you stretch your memory back, that you were the one who insisted on coming here.”

“Doesn’t mean I like them,” she huffed defensively as she sidled herself up the wall until she was standing.

“Why not?” Apollo went in for the kill.

For a second it looked as though she was going to give a complete answer. Éponine eventually declared, “Because,” with an air of finality neither of the men questioned further.

Instead, they explained the events within the police station as they all walked back to the Underground.

***

A blissfully non-eventful tube journey later, they boarded the Overground back home. Éponine’s mood had improved vastly and after a day spent together, conversation was flowing more freely amongst them.

That was until…

“So, Apollo,” she began slyly, “Do you have a preference?”

Apollo looked blankly, Grantaire slapped a palm to his own face. _What an absolute farce._

On seeing Grantaire’s reaction, Apollo looked disgruntled and asked cautiously, “What to?”

“You know,” Éponine said with a great emphasis. “A _preference_.”

Apollo stared in open confusion, it was almost possible to see the cogs turning as he tried to figure out the hidden meaning. The question was so far left field that it was most probable that he was estimating based on all possible things to possess a preference for.

He hazarded a guess with, “Regarding the _trains_?”

Éponine laughed and she laughed hard. It was the brightest she’d been all day. For some reason, it annoyed Grantaire no end in that moment.

“No, I mean a romantic or sexual preference.”

Apollo went the colour of his coat. Grantaire could see the flush of red spreading to the tips of his ears. He stuttered and stammered and seemed totally flabbergasted by the question. Grantaire’s own pulse had started to thunder. He couldn’t decide whether he was more embarrassed for Apollo or himself, although he couldn’t think why that would be the case.

Grantaire stepped in, “Leave it out, Ép’,” he said with unconcealed annoyance, “He doesn’t even know his own name, let alone stuff like that. It’s the last thing he needs.”

Éponine had clearly expected Grantaire to be laughing too from her plainly shocked expression. The fact she had misjudged this seemed to embarrass her as well, since she defensively said, “I was only asking. He was saying earlier that he remembered things he liked. I was just curious.”

Apollo interjected, “It’s fine. It’s fine, I understand. I’d obviously like to know the answer to all these things too. I’m sorry, I just didn’t realise that was what you meant and I haven’t really thought about it so I don’t know what to tell you.”

Éponine eyed him with mild suspicion but said obligingly, “Okay. Sorry for asking. I guess I was being nosey.”

She favoured Grantaire to a significant look, one that spoke of betrayal. He tried to look apologetic even though he wasn’t really.

Apollo nodded agreeably but his face returned to something vaguely nauseated once everyone had fallen quiet and set about their own thing. It was as though he had been reminded of something he really preferred he hadn’t been. He flicked through his notepad restlessly and picked at the cuff of the jacket.

There wasn’t time for Grantaire to properly investigate this though as Éponine, who had evidently turned to reading the news on her phone, said directed at Grantaire, “Hey, you know that politician, Lamarque? Well, he was assassinated earlier this afternoon.” She hummed in thought and continued, “Is assassinated the right word? What qualifies?”

Nobody at that moment cared whether assassination or murder was the word for it. Lamarque was dead.

Whatever had been bothering Apollo before evaporated like ice at the beach. He was seemingly trying to both crane to see the article over the table and gesture zealously to Grantaire at the same time, notepad temporarily dropped to the wayside.

Grantaire was also astounded, “Are you sure?” He asked urgently, “What exactly does it say?”

Éponine slowly looked up to see both men poised at the table edge opposite, expressions of almost unanimous exuberance, “What?” She asked with a degree of self-consciousness.

“What does it say?” Grantaire repeated emphatically.

Apollo was so wired he was almost vibrating in anticipation. Coherent speech appeared to be lost to him at this moment in time.

Éponine sighed at them and then read the article aloud.

The salient points were that Lamarque had been murdered at a rally he had been attending, that it was the same Lamarque they had looked up previously, and that the killer had not been caught.

By the time Éponine had finished Grantaire’s mouth hadn’t closed for a full five minutes, agape with disbelief. On reflection he wasn’t sure why he was so disbelieving since he knew Apollo could predict the future but the incorporation of the contents of the arm list into the equation was unprecedented.

“So,” he stammered at Apollo. “The arm list is all future events that you predicted before the injury?”

Apollo nodded excitedly before remembering himself, hushing Grantaire and looking about conspiratorially in case other passengers were alarmed by the content. They was only a boy in his early teens sitting a few seats away listening to music with a deep bass through earphones.

Satisfied Apollo turned back and said more quietly, “It must be. I think I just assumed the premonitions were a result of the accident and the amnesia. I didn’t think it would have been from before.”

“No, that made more sense,” Grantaire agreed. “That it was to do with some form of brain damage unlocking special abilities, like in Savant Syndrome.”

Apollo bobbed his head along, even though it was evident he did not know what this was. The sentiment was there. Grantaire would explain later. Now he just continued with, “We’ll have to look back through the list with a new perspective. Some of those are events that need to be looked into.”

“Obviously,” Apollo immediately agreed. “We need to try and stop them.”

Grantaire, for once, was in unwavering agreement. This needed investigation and intervention. It was potentially riddled with effort and exertion but for some reason this was tolerable so long as the plot kept taking unexpected twists into genuine fantasy. _Basically, this shit just got real._

“What on earth are you on about?” Éponine asked, “What has any of that got to do with Lamarque?”

“Remember that arm list I told you about?”

“The one where you thought Apollo was crazy?”

“Just the one,” Grantaire established with an approving point of the finger before turning to see Apollo’s straight-faced glare, his subsequent forgiving eye roll and then turning back to Éponine, chuckling, to continue, “Well, Lamarque’s murder was on the list.”

Apollo was already flicked to the page and spinning the notepad towards Éponine for her to read. “See,” he said, pointing insistently from across the table, “It’s the first on the list ‘ _Lamarque Murder’_.”

Éponine looked utterly confounded she looked between them and then out the window. She finally said, “That was only reported an hour ago. I have been with you the whole time since. There is no way you could have known.” Her brows furrowed in thought before she derided, “You boys had a list of events during the investigation of the identity of a man with premonitions and didn’t once think they might possibly be the future?” She made an appalled sound, “You are fucking useless. You hear me? Hardly the next Holmes and Watson, are you?”

“Who are they?” Apollo inquired with a serious tone, not quite picking up on the playful irony leaking into her voice.

“Oh,” she sniggered, her hard demeanour cracking, “Fictional detectives.”

“Right?” Apollo said as though he had predicted as much so was still no better informed that before. He turned back to Grantaire, “Shall we start on the rest of the list tomorrow?”

“Again?” Grantaire groaned, “We need a different approach if we are going to try again.”

“Police station? They were helpful today.”

“That was more straightforward. They won’t believe that this list wasn’t written after Lamarque died.”

“That’s true. Hmm,” Apollo considered, fingers stroking along the table edge subconsciously.

“Can I see the rest of the list?” Éponine asked as she slid it back towards herself. She carefully read through the points while they watched her, Apollo hopeful and inquisitive, Grantaire sceptical and bored.

That was until Éponine’s face changed. It was only for a brief second, but a spark of recognition flitted across her eyes before it was lost to indifference.

“You recognise something?” Grantaire pounced.

Éponine remained staring at the page for a few seconds longer, as though she hadn’t heard, but straightened up and shook her head.

“Really? I thought it looked like you had?”

She wrapped her jacket around herself protectively and posed like a caged animal ready to lash out.

The other two were hung in suspense, the posture so unequivocal, even to Apollo.

She shook her head again, her expression softening but her posture still guarded, “I thought I had but I was wrong.”

Interrogation was futile.

There was nothing more to ask.


	4. Chapter 4

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Hello. Super sorry this chapter took a little longer than planned, life stuff happened and whatnot.  
> Thank you so much for the comments and kudos, and thanks for reading. I hope you enjoy the chapter.

Monday morning, taking into account its usual vast array of negative connotations, was decidedly unpleasant, primarily because Éponine had mysteriously vowed not to be involved in any further part of the investigation. This would have been understandable had she not enjoyed herself but on delicate yet persistent probing – a Grantaire speciality –  she had confessed that she had had fun. Admittedly, something being fun doesn’t always suggest someone should do it and similarly, fun isn’t always a prerequisite for doing something but it certainly helps with matters.

She had been fluctuating between irritable and cheerful for the entirety of the Sunday mission and Grantaire couldn’t quite put a finger on it. Initially Grantaire had assumed that he had done something to upset her, as was his assumption with most negative outcomes. He performed some frankly spectacular enquiries into the matter, despite previous derision towards his skills as a detective, and uncovered that while she was annoyed _by_ him, she was not annoyed _at_ him. _Understandable_. Additionally, she admitted to liking Apollo, finding the situation interesting and confessed that they were right to look for where he came from instead of seeking therapy.

So, in conclusion, Éponine actually admitted to being wrong about a thing, to Grantaire no less. It was one for the record books.

Add up all the positives about the investigation and what was there not to like?

_Nothing I tell you._

Yet she was adamant that she could not come again.

“What’s made you so keen all of a sudden anyway?” she asked accusingly.

“A person with the ability to actually see the future,” Grantaire explained contemptuously as he spooned Golden Nuggets into his mouth. _Children’s cereal paved the way to the future. Much like children, yadda yadda._

“Exactly, I know. _A person_ ,” she hinted.

“Yes, Apollo is a human man,” Grantaire snarked.

“Is he human?”

There was a long pause where both parties honestly appraised this. Admittedly, there were questions.

Grantaire shrugged but said without conviction, “He looks human. If the shoe fits.”

“He has the legitimate ability to see into the future,” she disparaged, sipping her smoothie. It was a disconcerting shade of green. “Does that sound human?”

“Firstly, what is he if not human? Plus, there’s no real sign that makes him any less human. Some people can hold their breath underwater for, like, five minutes. They’re still human. Having abilities doesn’t mean you’re not human. Jeez, have some faith in our species, will you?” He said, in his flow now. He then added in a sly tone, “Secondly, you _admit_ he can see the future now?”

“If the shoe fits,” she parroted back with a smirk before adding, “But as I was saying, you’re keen on him.”

Grantaire stared with scorn in favour of rushing his mouthful.        

“That’s what I thought,” she said in singsong mockery.

He almost choked in his rush to reply, "Jeez, why are you so convinced of this? Is that why you asked him his preference? I mean for the love of God, why?" Grantaire gesticulated wildly before slumping onto the table, pushing the Nuggets aside.

"No shit! I had your back and you went all..." Instead of speech she affected a series of disgruntled and irritated facial expressions in a progression of exaggeration, each accompanied by an unflattering grunt. Grantaire feigned insult at these caricature impersonations of him. After about six or seven she returned to her usual unimpressed face and continued, “…defensive as if I was ravaging his honour. When we all know you were secretly chanting 'please say gay, please say gay' over and over in that depraved little head of yours."

"Must you make me sound like some sort of sexual predator, circling around the poor dude with amnesia like a vulture to circling prey," Grantaire grumbled. The simile only made Éponine laugh at him. "No, but seriously. Is that how you view me?"

"Like a carrion-eating, scavenger bird?" she asked wryly.

He snorted despite himself and then tried to restore a degree of serious composure, "Like some sort of compassionless machine preying on the vulnerable in the name of sex."

"Err, no, and really there is no need to be so dramatic about all this. It's very simple. A hot guy shows up, you dedicate all your time to him, talk about him all the time, clearly like him in some capacity, so I, like a good fucking wingman, scope the scene and you, like an ungrateful cretin, shit on it," she flippantly explained as she flicked through Friday's newspaper.

"Well, that would be all good and well if I liked him like that but I don't. These are extraneous circumstances." He added for good measure, "Besides, he probably has a girlfriend or something looking for him back in London."

"Okay, babe," she said, a blatant dismissal as she perused the puzzle pages. "You tell yourself that."

"Agh," he groaned pressing his face into the table. "You insufferable fiend."

She proceeded to ignore him as a mother would a sulking child.

She had staying power too.

A good amount of time passed before Grantaire succumbed, saying, "Is this why you refuse to help us?"

"Because you want to get in Apollo's pants and I think you need time alone together to achieve this goal? Yeah, sure. Why not?" Her tone was light and humorous but she looked cagey around the eyes.

He wanted to press the matter but she was in a combative mood, playfully so but still combative.

“You were helpful though?” he pleaded.

“Well, obviously. You are both senseless buffoons. At least he has an excuse. What’s yours? Too busy thinking with the other head,” she didn’t look up from the Sudoku she had started, only spared him an arid laugh.

Grantaire just watched on as she effortlessly eviscerated all his arguments.    

Conclusion: She would no longer be helping them.

***

The second thing about Monday morning that was terrible was that, on arriving to work, Grantaire had an email requesting that he stock check the entirety of non-fiction. _Fucking balls._

There was no possible aspect of the task that appealed to his sensibilities. It was cruel and unnatural.

He had until the end of the week as though the totality of human history could be scoped in that time.

It just seemed so incongruous with all the excitement of the weekend. Normal life was just too…normal.

He didn’t have to start now, by no means, so spent the whole morning storming about the place, pettily fixing all the things the weekend librarian had neglected and leaving her a scathing note specifying her shortcomings. Before now he had taken the state she left things on the chin but everything was shit and he wasn’t really sure why he felt so annoyed but he didn’t like to examine his feelings too much. There was surely an abundance of unpleasantness swept under some carpet somewhere.

Worst of all, Apollo didn’t show up.

Not that Grantaire had expected him to. _Or wanted him to, clearly_. However, it was tiresome to the point that it left Grantaire’s annoyance levels at fever pitch. By the time lunch came around he was exhausted by all the wrathful expression he had been flinging about the place. He had been short with more than one customer and had no patience for any living thing.

He couldn’t decide it he was so annoyed because he was overtired or just bored and needed something, anything to be upset about.

Consequently, he slumped onto multiple small, brightly coloured beanbags in the children’s section and had, what he deemed, a well-deserved nap.

He woke up some time later to the sight of Apollo sitting cross legged in a beanbag next to him.

“I thought you didn’t sleep here?” he said spiritedly, a smirk on his ridiculous, pretty face.

Grantaire levered himself out of the unflattering sprawl he had adopted and blearily peered around. He was groggy from daytime napping. How had he become so _old_?

“How long have you been sitting there watching me sleep?”

Apollo just laughed at this. It was most unusual. Was Grantaire still asleep?

Grantaire pouted a little and looked about for a source of water. Apollo passed him an unopened bottle of blissfully cool water without preface, by this point Grantaire was beyond asking how Apollo knew these things. Apollo started, “How long will stock check take?”

“Huh?”

“Non-fiction stock check, how long?”

“Oh, balls,” Grantaire muttered at the reminder. “Probably most of my natural life.”

“And your unnatural life?”

“All of that, no doubt.”

“It will be faster if we work together,” Apollo commented offhandedly, but he glanced a little too quickly to see Grantaire’s reaction.

Grantaire gaped sleepily, “You realise it’s the most joyless, repetitive, tedious job in human conception? Why would you commit psychological and emotional suicide?”

Apollo shrugged shyly, “You’ve given up a lot of your free time to help me. It’s the least I can do.”

“That’s probably true but I’m not a sadist,” Grantaire drily added, “despite the rumours.”

He regretted the joke as soon as it had departed his lips. _Stupid and crass._

Apollo just looked a bit miffed but undeterred. It was to be expected. “Well?”

Grantaire narrowed his eyes, “What do you want in return?”

Apollo frowned and shuffled on the beanbag, the sound of its beads bleeding into the quiet between them. He offered pleadingly, “Um, just your continued help?”

Grantaire was such a dick. Did Apollo have to pull on all the heartstrings?

He sighed, “I’m not some miserly hell spawn, you know? I said I’d help you and I will. You don’t have to trawl though non-fiction for that.”

“Also, I sort of want to,” Apollo said meekly. “I have a lot of learning to do.”

“Fine, dude. I’m not gonna say no if you are set on throwing yourself onto the funeral pyre. You’re working for free though,” Grantaire punctuated this by gracelessly attempting to get up. It took three attempts. Not that he was counting. Not that it was mortifying _, not at all_.

***

As it so happened, Apollo was systematic in all things. Grantaire could imagine him as some sort of air traffic controller. He pictured Apollo working at Heathrow, predicting storms for the airlines and warning passengers that their bag would get lost. If all else failed it was worth a phone call.

Apollo had surveyed the shelves and explained to Grantaire the most efficient order to cause the least disruption to visitors throughout the week.

“I don’t give a shit about that,” Grantaire clarified as he de-shelved human biology. “Let them eat cake, I say.”

“I don’t want to tell you how to do your job-“

“Let me stop you right there,” Grantaire interjected in mock solemnity, gesturing to the extensive organisational system Apollo had enforced.

Apollo accommodatingly sighed but remained unremorseful.

“-but if I were running this library I wouldn’t let anyone eat anything, especially cake,” he hummed, examining a book on GIT pathology as he checked it off.

“That’s your prerogative. Besides it’s a saying, it’s not literal. In fairness I wedged it into a dubious context. I’ll show you about Marie Antoinette when we get to French History.”

“Okay,” Apollo said, seemingly intrigued by the prospect.

“You’ll love it, probably, all the people rising up to bring down the out-of-touch monarchy. Stick it to the man and all that. Beheadings galore,” Grantaire summarised as he shuffled a book on men’s urological health to the bottom of the pile.

“Recently?” Apollo asked in alarm.

“Yeah,” Grantaire said mischievously. “In our lifetime, for sure. You’re French, right? You were probably a part of it.” For good measure he dropped in, “Nothing like a good old beheading.”

Apollo looked utterly horrified; he had gone paler than he had been already. Grantaire quickly extended his arms placatingly and said, “I’m joking, I’m joking. It was, like, hundreds of years ago. That was uncool, I’m sorry.”

Apollo scowled but it didn’t mask his evident relief. He huffily scolded, “That was uncalled for.”

“Yeah, well, I’m a notoriously bad person. Plus I did say I would prank you more.”

Apollo raised his eyebrows, “And I said I would smite you.”

“Consider me smited. Err, smote?”

They worked in amenable silence for another few minutes until Apollo asked, “Do you have a favourite book?”

“Err, not one I can single out.”

“You don’t have one that is special to you?” Apollo asked earnestly, his blue eye meeting Grantaire’s, making the inquiry somehow more probing.

“It’s hard to pick just one. I’ve read too many.”

“You must have favourites though?” Apollo insisted surveying the books littered around them in systematically chaotic piles.

“I guess I do but I can’t think of them off of the top of my head.”

“Okay,” Apollo allowed kindly. “Think about it and get back to me.”

“Why?” Grantaire was flummoxed by Apollo’s sudden interest. It was like at school when they go around the circle and ask you to stand up and say one interesting thing about yourself. Grantaire had always been bad at that. People would bounce up and reveal interesting anecdotes while he would sit and panic about his turn. It was a way of making yourself memorable to new people, something to define you by, but he didn’t know what was good, or what these people wanted to hear. He would stand and say something non-committal and unenthusiastic. In many ways, it did define him. It was a bleak thought and a bleak reflection of himself. It was safer to avoid self-reflection.

“Because I have hardly read any books and would like to read some more. If you have, say, a top ten then I can start there.”

“Like recommendations?”

Apollo looked up at the tone of the question, apparently Grantaire’s reluctance to put himself out there showed. “Yeah. If that’s okay?”

He backpedalled majorly, “Sure. But I want you to know that I read trash.”

Apollo appeared momentarily disgusted but then a strange expression took over his face, “If you’re trying to deter me, it won’t work.”

Grantaire couldn’t decipher the full meaning so just let out a strained laugh and replied, “I doubt many things could deter you once you’ve decided on something.”

Apollo hummed in agreement as he prized the urological book out of the pile where Grantaire had wedged it and sorted it without batting an eye. _So to speak._

***

By 4pm they had finished the natural sciences and a good portion of mathematics. Grantaire wouldn’t confess to this but Apollo’s methods worked.

However, as much as this was productive it didn’t help with the case.

“Apollo? Can I ask you a few questions? I want to get to the bottom of some things.”

“Sure,” Apollo said from a crouched position in a precarious galley way between chemistry and space science. 

“Firstly, when you arrived here you said all you had was the arm list and the clothes you were wearing? But you were found in pyjamas?”

Apollo shimmered around to regard Grantaire appraisingly, “I think I got those at the hospital. I’m not sure. I’ll ask Fantine but they were ill-fitting so I doubt they were mine. I suppose that was unclear of me.”

“Okay,” Grantaire said, mostly satisfied. “Secondly, when you had the premonition, or whatever, about that person dying at Kings in the A&E you said you saw the doctor in your mind’s eye saying about it. Yes?”

“Yes.”

“Then you recognised that doctor we spoke to. Was it the same doctor and you just recognised her from the premonition?”

“No, different doctor.”

“Okay, so you do have memories from before the operation with the ocular specialist then.”

“Yes, and as I said, I recognised the streets and the florist.”

Grantaire scratched at his chin in thought, “The thing is, I was operating under the assumption that it was post-surgical, the amnesia that is, but it can’t be. The amnesia was caused by the eye injury, so in theory it should be easy enough to unlock the memories of everything post-injury and pre-surgery.”

Apollo nodded consideringly, “The in-between period, so to speak. Yes, I think if I thought on it I would but it’s like trying to remember a dream, the more you try the harder it is. Plus, it’s all mixed up with other things that could be past, present or future.”

“Your mind is basically a cluster-fuck of tenses.”

Apollo raised both eyebrows in rumination before nodding in agreement, “It’s certainly chaotic.”

“Hmm. So, just to be clear, the list was written prior to injury, suggesting you had the gift before injury. Then you were injured and you have blurred memories of that period. Then you had an operation and woke up lucid but with only those blurred memories but still with the gift,” Grantaire tapped a rhythm onto the spine of a hardback as he listed.

“Yes to all,” Apollo agreed.

“Even if we could just somehow unlock those memories we could get back to the injury location and find where you started out.”

“I want to remember everything, not just to that point,” Apollo admonished sulkily. “But I understand the logic. I just don’t know if memories can be ‘unlocked’.”

Grantaire didn’t know anything much on anything it would seem, he lamented, “Maybe you do need a specialist.”

Apollo glowered such that Grantaire acted as though he hadn’t spoken.

Instead he asked, “Have you had any other premonitions of the things on the list since the op?”

Apparently this question was acceptable. “No, I don’t think so.” Apollo frowned at a textbook on organic chemistry before asking, “What if I wasn’t the one who predicted that? We can’t assume I am the only one.”

More Apollos? Could the world survive this? Could Grantaire?

They both sat there in silence, enclosed in several piles of books, thinking about all the unanswered questions. There were so many, they could bat back and forth all day.

“I think,” Grantaire said slowly, “That there is no way of us answering those sorts of questions until we find where you’re from. It’s a part of the problem but not part of the solution.”

Apollo looked crestfallen at the mutual acknowledgement of this fact but didn’t argue.

Everybody filed for an indiscriminate amount of time.

Eventually Grantaire broached another issue, “Do we assume the list is in chronological order?”

Apollo weightily sighed, “I don’t know. The fourth point doesn’t refer to a specific event in time. Corruption could happen over years, same as bribery. It’s a strange point because it’s more of a summary.”

“It’s a bit of an opinion in a way,” Grantaire joined the back and forth, “I mean, it’s not clean cut like a fracture. It implies whoever wrote the list knew or suspected this but it’s not worded like a suspicion but like a fact.”

“Yes, also, that need not even be a future event. It’s ongoing so the writer _could_ have known it as fact, with or without a premonition,” Apollo added, absently stroking the edge of a page of the organic chemistry textbook which had fallen open.

“Well, that sounds like a thing you’d write either way so let’s be real, it was probably you,” Grantaire said with a wave of the hand.

“Why do you have this impression of me?” Apollo asked without malice.

“What?”

“I don’t know,” Apollo shrugged. “I haven’t the word for it. It doesn’t matter since you’re right. I probably did write it since the sentiment of the writer is one I share.”

Grantaire couldn’t possibly see how Apollo could accept an assessment of his character without thorough argument. It was either too fundamental a part of him to question or he was out of sync with his past self. Grantaire suspected the former but feared the latter.

“Sooo,” he hazarded into the conversation, deciding that without a clue how to address the topic to instead just move past it. “Chronological or otherwise, the River Café is the only one I have the first idea of how to investigate and since it’s second after Lamarque I think we should start there.”

“I agree,” Apollo said, having stopped petting the books and opened his notepad. “Do we stake it out?”

“We don’t have any details though?”

“Well, how else will we get some?”

“If we stand at a location of a known future shooting, isn’t that just asking for, I dunno, getting shot? I mean, be my guest but I have better things to do than play _Russian Roulette: The Timebomb Edition_ ,” he forewarned with a quirk of the eyebrow.

Apollo scoffed, “What’s your big plan then?”

Grantaire lifted his shoulders in a defeated gesture, “Beats me. We could ask the owner and staff if they’ve seen anything unusual. We can do it under the guise of your lost identity. I suppose it’s at least a starting point.”

Apollo swayed in deliberation, weighing it up, before he finally confessed the idea a good one, albeit reluctantly.

Instead, completely off topic since acknowledging Grantaire to be useful and valuable was frankly out of the question, he said “Have we heard any more on Lamarque? What happened to him etc.?”

“He’s dead,” Grantaire affirmed with a distinct degree of deliberate irksomeness. For some reason the clearly unintentional slight got under his skin nonetheless.

“Must you do that? Be purposely difficult,” Apollo said, unfazed.

“Yes,” Grantaire clarified defiantly, “Plus I think you’ll find it’s an integral part of our agreement.”

“All I did was ask a simple question?” Apollo retorted, putting the textbook he was holding down with a little too much force. It hit the greyish-blue carpet with a thud and a puff of dust wafted up. Whose job was it to hoover again?

“And all I did was give a simple answer.”

Apollo grimaced and returned to toying with the spine of a book, poised to argue at any moment. He looked like he wanted to and a part of Grantaire wanted him to, the part that wasn’t pleading for some sort of recognition.

“Do you know anything or not? About Lamarque?”

“No,” Grantaire gritted it out.                                            

“Fine, then.”

And just like that they ignored each other for half an hour.

He didn’t know where his annoyance had come from, not really, and it was already fading. He childishly tried to pick at it to keep it alive. Sometimes it felt good to be angry at a person. It put things in perspective. It was far easier to be annoyed at something external to yourself. If you missed the bus it was easier to blame the driver than your own poor timekeeping, at least it was on some days. Days like today.

Grantaire couldn’t really decide why he had had a baseline level of annoyance turned on himself for the last few days. It was evidently the stress of the situation, the workload, the lack of free time. Maybe it was indigestion?

No, no, Apollo, Mr High-and-Mighty was somehow to blame. He was the new factor introduced to an otherwise balanced system. He had upset the equilibrium; he was the catalyst to the inevitable reaction. He had caused Grantaire to turn an investigative eye onto his own life. Obviously everything had been fine before, everything had been comfortable, everything had been problem free. This was all an unnecessary disruption.

Who the fuck was Grantaire kidding?

Fine was not a word to live by.

Fine was getting up every day and telling yourself that the job you felt no passion for was temporary, or worse, that it was enough. Fine was playing video games by yourself and telling yourself it was because you’re too tired to go out. Fine was eating own-brand pasta you add boiling water to, served in a cardboard pot because your flatmate was out and cooking for one is too much effort. Fine was waking up hungover with a person you don’t even recognise taking up 70% of your double mattress and smelling like a stale, celebrity-marketed aftershave. Fine was settling for the things around you even though they bore you, understimulate you and suffocate you.

Fine was the type of word that, when used to describe your existence, should tell you to change something and yet renders you incapable of actually acknowledging this.

Fine was accepting things because it was easier than admitting that you want more.

Fine was not enough.

And yet Grantaire was fine.

Or at least he had been.

Somehow the ignorance had been bliss and now it was gone, leaving in its wake a hollow sense of things not being enough. Coasting through wasn’t really good enough, all that it ever could be was fine and for the first time Grantaire wanted to be more than just fine.

He watched as Apollo restacked the chemistry books onto a low shelf and carefully lined up the spines an inch from the edge, his long pale fingers quick and deliberate. Apollo always acted with purpose.

Grantaire would like to have had the gift to see the future. If he had he would have called in sick that day and not let himself be a part of this. And always regretted it.

Apollo had been a lone match in a room stacked full of TNT.

***

They remained silent until five thirty when Grantaire had to close up.

Apollo was the first to speak and did so with no evidence of leftover annoyance. It was most annoying.

“Should we go to the café tomorrow?”

Apollo looked almost cautious, standing in the middle of the foyer, glancing to Grantaire as he shut down his computer.

When Grantaire didn’t immediately reply, Apollo preceded to shuffle on the already threadbare carpet where it was thinner by the doorway. It was as though he was already marking the place, woven into the fabric of the building.

Evidently, the former silence had been imposed and upheld up Grantaire alone because apparently, as ever, he was a massive dick.

He chewed his lower lip before saying, in forced off-handedness, “I need to get cover since I’m supposed to be here. Wednesday? If I can get cover.”

Apollo beamed. Grantaire couldn’t comprehend its sudden appearance given the simplicity of his comment. It was brightness defined. It was like staring directly into an LED headlight, there was no defence other than to avert your gaze. Was it possible for one person to be so utterly unendurable?

“Okay. Perfect. That would be brilliant if you could try. Should I do some of my own research tomorrow?” he gushed, the shuffling now subsided. The sunbeam still at a high wattage.

“Sure, knock yourself out,” Grantaire continued the charade of nonchalance with the embellishment of a casual one shouldered shrug. He was an excellent actor. Altogether convincing, refined really. At least he thought so. God only knows what Apollo thought of it. He looked rather suddenly startled more than anything.

Apollo hesitated at the threshold, “The police station will call tomorrow.”

Grantaire wasn’t even surprised. Not by the call but by Apollo’s announcement of the call. This was all becoming commonplace. Such is life.

“Did that call just come in?” He hummed coolly, a raise of an eyebrow.

“Yes, actually, so to speak,” Apollo twirled a little in the doorway in what appeared to be indecision. “I’ll, err, I’ll come tomorrow at twelve-ish.”

“Do you know what they’ll say? It would save us all the suspense,” he said, regarding the empty chairs of the silent library.

“No, just that they’ll call. It will be at,” he spared a look to his watch, “Eleven fourteen. Don’t miss it.” He sighed, “What am I saying, I know you’ll answer.”

“But would I have answered if you hadn’t told me to?” Grantaire asked with a mischievously pointed finger, trying to emulate The Oracle.

“I don’t know. I saw you answering and the fact I decided to tell you didn’t change that.”

“When you predicted Ép’ and I arguing on the train, you told me. How is this different?” Grantaire queried in genuine curiosity.

“I predicted an unfavourable outcome on the train. I’m not sure but I didn’t want that outcome so I attempted to change it. Like at the crossroads with the girl,” he frowned down at the worn area of carpet under his shiny, brown boots. He seemed tired, heavy, “I see your point. I can’t explain. Just trust me. It can be changed. I know that now. I think I’m learning how to.”

“Sure,” Grantaire said with clarity, all acting ebbed away now by the discussion’s tone. “I’m just asking so I can get an understanding.”

“I know,” Apollo sighed, somehow growing heavier still. “I’m sorry about earlier.”

Then he was gone, like a magician’s assistant. Not even a puff of smoke.

Was he a human man?

Just trust me.

***

 Instead of stock check, Grantaire had been ferreting out a series of books on French history, primarily revolution era and later, for Apollo’s reading for today when the phone could be heard ringing, its unmistakable chime like the funeral march of Grantaire’s professional life. Familiar and foreboding. Was he having to stock check fiction now like asking him to do non-fiction, aka his job, wasn’t already enough of a piss-take?

Non-fiction was frustratingly the furthest from the desk. Incidentally, it was also the place where teenagers could be found making out. Some librarians probably found this alarming but Grantaire took a certain malicious pleasure in ‘accidentally’ needing to head to the back of the library and two red-faced adolescents emerging, only to flee out of the building. On one occasion Grantaire had called after them ‘Did you find what you were looking for today?’ in his most obliging customer service voice. Nothing like the European history aisle to get the kids hot under the collar it would seem. All that sexy, sexy history.

Tormenting teenagers was funny for adults. It was a universal constant, like gravity and nature and Donald Trump’s haircut. It was an unavoidable fact of life. Besides, everyone had been there, right? Adolescence wasn’t the same without being caught once or twice. Even if Grantaire had been caught with the cricket team’s wicker-keeper on the school educational weekend to Beamish Museum. Even if the teacher who caught them had told their parents through what they claimed was obligation, subsequently outing them both and causing a chain-reaction of problems.

That had been particularly uncalled for, to say the very least, and was not how Grantaire’s own teenager tormenting worked. If he were ever to find two dudes making out against the shelves on modern history, he would probably cheer and distribute high-fives all round. He would be dubbed World’s Loudest Librarian and be unremorseful about it.

He imagined the type of outrage Apollo would show if told about the teacher’s indiscretion, not that he could tell Apollo. It would reveal too much of himself. Let’s start with the ten favourite books and build up from there, shall we? Slow and steady.

Sauntering up the aisles was not an effective means of catching the phone before it rang off. It was an effective means of evading his boss but she usually called earlier than this. He scuttled up between the aisles like Pacman hunting for yellow dots, a Grantaire seen moving at an unchartered pace.

He caught it. The phone that is.

“Hello there, this is Maria calling from Peckham Police Station.”

“Hello Maria, this is Grantaire speaking,” he echoed in his most proper phone voice as he settled into the beloved chair. Glancing at the screensaver of the computer, a ping-ponging of the digital time, he saw it was 11:14. Well, I’ll be damned.

“Hello Grantaire. I have your details and that of your friend, who is suffering from memory loss. I understand you spoke to my colleague on Sunday and agreed that someone should call if they had information or anyone came looking for him.”

She paused and Grantaire realised it was for clarification, “Yes. Is there news?”

“A young man came into the station this morning looking for your friend. He described him accurately, from the information I have, and appeared to know him well and be worried about him,” she described, somewhat robotically, but Grantaire figured this was procedural.

He picked at the rim of the plastic lid from his coffee earlier, warping the plastic with his fingertips. “What did you tell him?”

“That I was to contact your friend prior to giving him any information. The file includes you as a point of contact, hence why I am able to discuss it with you.”

“Okay,” he replied, absently, pondering who this man could be, and what it meant, and what to do next. “Did he leave a name?”

“Courf. He said your friend would know him. I didn’t explain the situation, only that I would have to get in touch with you first,” she was very calm and professional.

“Is he still there?”

“No, he left about half an hour ago. I told him I would contact him.”

“How was he? Did he seem okay?” Grantaire probed.

“He seemed very relieved to hear I might have information but very concerned. There is no guarantee your friend is who he is looking for.”

“No, I mean. Did he seem threatening or, err, suspicious? My friend was injured the night he lost his memory,” Grantaire disclosed evasively.

There was a brief silence on the line before she said, “I understand. I can only cast an opinion but he appeared clean, well-mannered and genuinely concerned. Obviously, we checked for identification and it matched up.”

“Okay,” Grantaire settled for. It would have to be enough. “What now? Do I ask my friend to call you?”

“Yes. Obviously, this is his decision. Ask him and if you could let us know as soon as possible that would be much appreciated.”

After some clumsy farewells he hung up.

Courf? A clean, well-mannered young man.

Grantaire huffed about tidying and untidying his desk for a few minutes, unsure of why he felt so off balance.

The phone rang again.

Madre de Dios!

He grabbed the receiver like an escaped hamster before breathily asking, “What?” Not his brightest moment.

“It’s me,” came Apollo’s voice, it’s usual, now hauntingly familiar, blend of annoyance and caution.

“Apollo? Deity of prophecy and light?” Grantaire chimed, mood already lifted without conscious awareness, “Are you calling to pay your late fees?”

“I wouldn’t have late fees,” Apollo muttered before bypassing the subject altogether, “Did they call?”

“Yes.”

“And?”

“Some guy called Courf. Sound familiar?”

Apollo gave an agitated breath which filled the line. He unnecessarily confessed, “No. I don’t think so. Maybe when I see him.”

“So, you want to see him?”

“Of course,” Apollo almost growled it, “What would be the point of not seeing him? When can he come?”

“You need to call them to say yes. I couldn’t say for you.”

“Hmm. Fine. I’ll be there in five.”

He hung up on the final syllable. Charming.

Grantaire spent those five minutes alternating between forms of heavy procrastination.

Apollo arrived promptly in the trusty red coat and a pinched expression. He didn’t seem excited, he seemed overstretched. He approached the desk and unloaded his pockets in the usual fashion.

“You okay?” Grantaire queried with caution.

Apollo stared at the cereal bar he had placed on the desk and slowly shook his head.

“You don’t want to see him?” Grantaire guessed.

“No, no,” he uttered, running fretful fingers through the golden hair. “I just don’t know what to expect. This could be it, I could be going home,” Apollo’s murmur was such a blend of restraint and hopefulness that it could probably render most into a state of unadulterated sympathy and comradeship. Conversely, the comment had merely caused Grantaire’s stomach to swoop in a way that was suspicious and perhaps slightly uncompassionate. Was it unacceptable to be in some way offended by the comment? Should he feel put out by the idea of Apollo going to a home somewhere other than his town and the shitty, run down library?

Probably not, but here he was with a strange feeling that flitted about too quickly to set his attention onto and examine fully. It was peripheral but somehow also centre-stage in his thoughts.

Not that one can really complain given everything Apollo was going through. A most exasperating situation, one that is annoying and difficult but gives you no right to complain. Grantaire loved to complain so it was a constant effort to keep it in.

And then there was this other feeling.

Bloody Apollo.

While Grantaire had been contemplating, Apollo had pulled up the wooden chair and began staring at him expectantly, then impatiently.

He coughed “Grantaire? Can we call?”

Grantaire startled fractionally, “Oh.” He robotically redialled before palming the receiver off to Apollo, “Sure.”

The conversation was brief, merely Apollo confirming that this man could be given their details. Whoever was on the other end had clearly offered to give them the man’s – Courf’s – number because Apollo urgently flapped a hand against Grantaire’s forearm in the search for pen and paper. Grantaire obliged, provided the back of a receipt for coffee and watched as numbers materialised, which were still somehow in tiny block capitals.

Once he had profusely thanked the police officer, Apollo hung up and said, “What should I do?”

“I thought you were all holier-than-thou about calling them,” Grantaire grumbled sulkily.

Apollo rolled the eye and countered, “I mean about meeting him. Can I invite him here or should I meet him in on mutual ground, say a coffee shop?”

The entire tone of the question was almost specifically designed to stick pins into Grantaire’s already abraded mood. It was like Apollo was going on a date. Next he’d be asking Grantaire what he should wear. Grantaire was strongly inclined to tell him he couldn’t invite the guy here. That would be petty though so he didn’t. Lie, he was curious and nosey.

“Mutual ground?” He asked scornfully. “This could be the person who tried to cut out your actual eyeball. Why not meet him outside the River Café? Go all in or whatever.”

Apollo blessed him with an exaggerated sigh, “Must you be so difficult?”

“Must you be so ridiculous?”

Apollo just glared, open-mouthed and then grabbed the receipt and stormed off down towards non-fiction and the toilets.

Perhaps it had been a childish thing to say, Grantaire considered, as he doodled on the back on another receipt he had fished out of his wallet, this time for some cheap whisky.

Apollo was ridiculous though. Certainly, he didn’t have the life experience available to guide him but surely not running off with strangers was something procedural like the not-drinking bleach was.

Then again he didn’t have a lot of regard for usual social procedure whether he knew it or otherwise.

He was probably just a ridiculous human being full stop.

The doodle took a human form.

Naturally no one in particular. Naturally.

Surely Apollo must realise that Grantaire was only trying to stop him from getting abducted or something. Unless he already had been abducted and that was why he was here in the first place. At which point he was only being abducted back.

But there was this whole business with the eye.

Grantaire didn’t much like it. Having someone attempt to remove an eyeball from you was generally something to be avoided. This person could be a nutjob who collected unusual eyeballs. Weirder shit has happened on those crime shows on TV. It was enough to make Grantaire shudder and toss the doodle somewhere off to the right. Maybe it landed in a bin, maybe it didn’t.

The bottom line was that this was more than just a potential catfishing. This guy could be dangerous.

Apollo re-emerged from the depths of non-fiction some fifteen minutes later with a cool expression. He approached the desk and offhandedly told Grantaire, “He is coming here this afternoon so you can see him. Happy?”

Before Grantaire could say that ‘no, he was not even one iota happy or even neutral on the matter’ Apollo was breezing off towards the beanbags, his back ramrod, no surer display of the cold shoulder.

“How did he sound?” Grantaire called after him, noise levels be damned. He told himself he called to be difficult but really he was anxiously curious.

“Really nice,” was the icy reply, dispensed over a shoulder, as Apollo retreated.

Well just fucking excellent.

***

There had been no way Grantaire was getting any work done that afternoon. He awarded himself his lunchbreak then and there, and for some reason spent it storming around and covertly spying on Apollo, who was aggressively reading in the fashion one does when they want to appear busy but are in truth indifferent to the book.

Grantaire had been doing a lot of storming recently. This job used to be relaxing but that had all gone to hell now. Why could he not keep his chill in the face of Apollo? The dude was like a nuclear bomb, he just blew everything to smithereens. Not only was Apollo ridiculous but everything about it was ridiculous, and worst of all he made Grantaire ridiculous.

It was probably just as well he was leaving.

No sooner had Grantaire thought it that a young man entered the library with a tentative air. He had dark brown hair cropped short at the sides and slightly curly on top. He was fair skinned with a tiny hint of freckles on his nose. He wore a fitted leather jacket and very tight skinny jeans.

He fit the brief.

He was attractive.

Grantaire disliked him on sight.

However, it had only been an hour since Apollo had called and the train from London took longer than that. Then accounting for underground and walking from the station and potential misdirection, there was no way this was their guy.

“Can I help you?” Grantaire asked as the guy approached the desk. He was a little more accommodating than he would have been prior to the realisation this was someone else.

The man regarded Grantaire a moment longer than he was comfortable with. He spoke with a strong Estuary accent, “I’m looking for a friend. He told me to meet him here.”

Nope, Grantaire did in fact dislike him.

Before Grantaire could speak, or react, or punch the man square in the face, Apollo was there. It was as though he had risen from a puddle on the carpet and the fluid formed a full sized man. That was how fast he materialised.

“Hello?” Apollo said gingerly.

On seeing Apollo the man, this Courf startled and then lit up like a Christmas tree. Without preamble he pulled Apollo into a vice-like embrace, all the while exclaiming in joy at being reunited.

“I can’t believe it’s you,” he continued, now holding Apollo at arm’s length to get a thorough look at him. “Look at you. What happened to you? You look unwell.”

Apollo didn’t have an answer for that but it was okay because the guy was back to bombarding him with questions, “You’ll have to tell me what happened. We were so worried. You just disappeared. Where have you been living? What happened? Why are you wearing that eyepatch?”

Apollo went to speak but the man was too animated for anything but monologue, “Why did I have to meet you in a library? How did you even end up here?” Then he paused looked at Apollo appraisingly and said, “You’ll have to tell me on the way home. Everyone will be so pleased to see you, we were all so worried that something terrible had happened to you.”

“Wait,” Apollo said quickly. “I have some questions.”

Courf seemed momentarily stunned and then seemed to remember himself, “Of course,” he murmured patiently.

Apollo glanced to Grantaire, likely for guidance, but on setting eyes on him seemed to remember that he was annoyed with him so resolutely looked back to his new (old) friend, his shoulders set with determination.

“I-” he faltered, “I don’t remember anything.”

Courf stared but before he could ask for clarification, Apollo continued. It was probably for the best since once the guy got started, he didn’t stop.

“The night I went missing. Something happened. I don’t remember anything from before then. That’s why I didn’t come back. I didn’t remember where that was,” Apollo explained his situation sorrowfully and with a strange tinge of embarrassment.

Grantaire shrewdly watched Courf’s face. There was something off as he watched Apollo speak, as though he wasn’t surprised. However, once Apollo had completed the confession, Courf shrieked with heart wrenching sadness, “You don’t remember me?” His voice cracked at the end as though near tears.

Apollo sadly shook his head.

“Oh my God!” Courf cried, “No wonder you didn’t come back. I knew you wouldn’t abandon us deliberately.”

He hugged Apollo again, even though Apollo remained reasonably rigid, unsure how to react. Courf then began to fret as though he didn’t know what to do or how to act, finally he said, “What questions do you have?”

Apollo had a million questions, Grantaire knew this. He looked as though he was searching for one.

“What’s my name?”

Courf’s face looked to crumple at the declaration.

“You, you don’t know your name?” Was his croaked reply.

“No,” Apollo said in earnest.

Courf hugged him yet again before saying, “Maybe we need to do this sitting down.”

Apollo gestured towards the beanbags and when Courf appeared to not warm to the suggestion, Apollo then suggested the desk chairs.

“How about over coffee?” Courf proposed.

“Okay,” Apollo said keenly.

“How about the River Café?” Grantaire interjected, voice dipped in sarcasm.

The other two both looked at him then, clearly having forgotten his presence. How charming.

Apollo replied, “Maybe we will.”

“Don’t be a fucking idiot.”

Courf seemed alarmed by this sudden hostility but said nothing.

Apollo only scowled before heading towards the door, Courf following him without argument.

Grantaire felt ice cold. It was sudden, as though dropped into freezing water. Apollo was leaving and he had no reason to come back. Grantaire wanted to throw himself over his desk and pull him back bodily. Apollo’s friend had come back for him and the investigation was complete. There was no more reason for him to stay.

Except it didn’t feel complete.

It felt wrong.

Courf felt wrong. The time of arrival, the expression, the demeanour. It all felt like a shoe that pinched at the toes, close but not quite right.

Grantaire wanted to make a fuss, yell, point, accuse. It was all wrong.

Instead all he said was, “Will you be coming back?” It came out like daggers, sharp and merciless.

It hit the mark.

Apollo turned to look at him and there was something in the set of his features that said ‘I hadn’t realised this was goodbye’. He didn’t look sad, per se, but he looked something. There was something. All Grantaire needed was a something, it was all he asked for.

Apollo bit, “Fine.”

Then he was gone.

***

Grantaire would have stormed – it was kind of his thing now –  except he only felt that coldness. It was bone-deep. It was everywhere.

Was Apollo gone forever or not?

He didn’t want to think too much about it except sitting on his desk was Apollo’s notebook, forgotten and discarded like yesterday’s trash.

That was what Grantaire was.

It had all meant nothing in the end.

Everything was shit and Apollo was gone and Grantaire didn’t finish for another four hours. He meticulously pushed the notepad towards the edge of the desk, it teetered on the brink before toppling to the floor with a papery splat.

Grantaire couldn’t seem to get any clarity.

Something was off with Courf. Right?

He was suspicious and surely Grantaire’s instincts couldn’t be that off. Yet, an event horizon had been crossed. Grantaire was big enough to admit it. He could no longer be objective where Apollo was concerned. He couldn’t go back to not caring.

Certainly anyone who cared about Apollo would have advised him caution but Grantaire had been set to dislike whoever walked through that door. He just couldn’t be trusted to be rational anymore.

No matter what Courf had been like, that argument would have happened. It was an inevitability. He had been spoiling for the fight.

He hadn’t wanted Apollo to go with Courf but in reality he hadn’t wanted Apollo to go with anyone. He hadn’t wanted Apollo to go at all.

Curses.

Now he had to sit here and try to unpick it all in his mind, what was his own feelings and what was the genuine assessment of Courf.

Firstly, he shouldn’t have let Apollo go with a stranger, whether they were suspicious or not. It was probably all his fault. He had driven Apollo to go in the fashion he had. He had needled him. Grantaire sat and faced his conscience for a few minutes. If Apollo got hurt, he would have to hold himself partially accountable.

Was it unreasonable to flee the library and scour the streets looking for them?

Possibly. Possibly not.

Secondly, Courf seemed a bit off but Grantaire had never met the man before and he certainly appeared to care a lot about Apollo. He clearly recognised him, or he was a very good actor.

Still, it didn’t mean he hadn’t tried to cut Apollo’s eye out.

Grantaire sat in this fashion, his mind whirring through the guilt, the possibilities, the answers, for a long while.

He was broken from his reverie by the sound of some papers hitting his desk.

He looked up.

It was some random woman. Oh, for fucks sake.

“Did you drop this?” She inquired, gesturing to Apollo’s notebook where she had placed it back on the desk.

“Thanks,” Grantaire gritted out the word, completely thankless. He intended to ignore her but reminded himself of his employment here and asked, “How can I help you?”

The circus of helping customers was a tiresome one. She wanted some books for her child to use to study German. Grantaire trawled through the foreign language section with her for an era.

At least it was a distraction from the worry of Apollo’s imminent demise.

Then he remembered that Apollo could see the future. Surely if he were to be murdered then he would have seen that coming.

It was slightly reassuring but then if it was as fool proof as that, then why hadn’t Apollo seen into the future and seen how he would find his identity and then used that information to find it. Or even better looked into the future and just seen his identity. That probably wasn’t how time worked. Grantaire decided he needed to read up on this. He really had no excuse.

When he returned to his desk it was already four thirty. Perhaps deities do exist.

He slowly tidied things up and put everything away for the hour before close.

***

No sooner had Grantaire got in and sat down with a steaming cup of coffee avec a shot of the aforementioned cheap whisky when there was a sharp rapping at the front door.

He had prepared himself for a nice, comforting brood over the day’s failings but this turn of events threw a spanner in the works. Éponine was supposed to be doing overtime and he had been keen to relish the solitude.

He slouched to the door and flung it open without finesse.

Grantaire would have liked to say that he was righteously annoyed to see Apollo standing there. He was just relieved. It crackled up inside him like a wild thing, so complete in its cauterisation of the hurt.

He was less excited to see Courf stooped next to Apollo, his arms folded across his chest, trying to not look put out by this brief diversion from plan.

Apollo shuffled on the novelty doormat, it said Knock, Knock, It’s Gin O’clock. It had been a gift and had been funny at the time. It was strangely cheap and unwelcoming today.

“I came to say goodbye,” Apollo declared carefully.

Grantaire wanted to bite out a retort but there was something in Apollo’s expression, something pleading, something desperate, that kept the spiteful words at bay.

“Okay,” Grantaire replied. “Want to come in?”

“Please,” Apollo said eagerly.

Grantaire ushered them to the kitchen and started to boil the kettle. Apollo sat at the kitchen table, Courf didn’t.

“Take a seat,” Grantaire said in his most hostly voice.

“Sure,” was the reply. There was something about the tone, somehow disdainful. It put Grantaire’s hackles up. Was he being objective? He glanced at Apollo. He was cringing.

Something was wrong.

He continued to make the drinks and make conversation.

“So? Did you two manage to catch up?” He asked cheerily, it was a physical effort.

“Yes, thank you,” Apollo said politely without elaboration.

“How do you two know each other?”

“From secondary school,” Courf supplied. “We’ve known each other for years. It’s going to be really hard to reacquaint ourselves.”

Grantaire nodded along, “Earlier you mentioned a ‘we’. Were there a lot of you looking for Apollo?”

Courf laughed, “Apollo. We were talking about that earlier. Such a strange choice of name.”

“How so? It fits him-” he petered off on looking at Apollo’s pinched expression.

There was a silence. Courf filled it, “But yes there were a lot of us looking for him. We’ve all been friends for years. We just didn’t know where to start. He disappeared without a trace.”

“When was the last time you saw him?”

Courf appeared thoughtful before explaining, “It must have been the Friday. Yes, the Friday. We all went out for drinks and that was the last time we saw you,” he addressed Apollo then.

Apollo nodded and queried, “Did you know anything about my eye?”

Courf looked uncomfortable. The question had come out of nowhere and it really showed by how it stopped the conversation dead.

“How do you mean?” Courf warbled the question.

“Well, I had a defect in it?”

“Oh, right. Well, yes but you’d always had that. You were born with it. Is that what you mean?” Courf’s answer was choppy.

“Yes. Did I not wear an eyepatch before?”

“No, you didn’t think you should have to hide it,” Courf said. It was done without malice but it somehow seemed accusatory as if to say ‘what changed?’

“Was I supposed to have an operation on it?”

“You didn’t say but you may have done. Medicine is advancing so quickly that maybe they found a way.”

“It kinda went wrong this time,” Grantaire quipped as he poured the boiling water. His phone beeped in his back pocket.

“Maybe it was experimental,” Courf shrugged, looking to Apollo. “Do you have any recollection?”

“I have no recollection of anything,” he said with a hint of annoyance, as though he had spent the last few hours repeating these words.

“It’s such a shame,” Courf answered, accepting the tea from Grantaire without proper acknowledgement.

Grantaire sat and glanced at his phone as the other two spoke.

**Apollo: I had a vision. Something bad. I can’t go with him.**

Grantaire surreptitiously looked over at Apollo. He was calmly speaking with Courf about his past.

Sometimes it didn’t feel good to be right. Such a cross to bear.

What to do, what to do?

Was Courf himself the danger or was it something on the path that he would lead Apollo down?

**Grantaire: Is he dangerous? What action should we take?**

He signalled to Apollo, with attempted subtlety, to check his phone. Apollo didn’t see the gesture, too busy maintaining the conversation.

Grantaire wondered if he should do what he had wanted to do from the beginning and simply deck Courf unconscious. Then they could drag him out of the apartment and lock the door. He was sure he’d seen something similar on an episode of Peep Show. It had worked then.

Unfortunately, it lacked the type of diplomacy this situation may well require. Grantaire suspected that Apollo was a fan of diplomacy. Unless he was one of those people who believed that it only worked better than all the previous things humanity tried. Which was sort of true after all. Perhaps that is something they could agree on.

Another time perhaps.

Courf was animatedly speaking of one of the mutual friends he shared with Apollo. Grantaire furtively looked about the room for potential avenues of diversion or escape.

Then, as if heaven itself was shining upon them, a key turned in the lock. At least it would buy them time and perhaps give them a chance to communicate behind Courf’s back.

Éponine called from the hall, “Grantaire! There better be whisky on the premises because overtime can suck my balls.”

She was such a lady. Grantaire really did love her.

She emerged into the kitchen, her tanned cheeks still flush from the cold, the tip of her nose reddened.

That was until the colour all but drained from her face. At first she looked surprised but then her eyes narrowed.

“What the fuck are you doing here?”

Apollo looked completely shell-shocked at the pure acid in her tone, “I was saying-”

She cut him off with a dismissive wave and a, “Not you.” She turned on Courf with an expression that could flay skin off bone, “How did you find me, Montparnasse?”


	5. Chapter 5

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Hi all, sorry I left you all in the cliffhanger lurch for so long. Have a chapter!  
> Plus, super sorry if there were initially mistakes in the last chapter because I, like an idiot, uploaded the un-betaed version and only noticed 3 days later *face palm*   
> Massive thank you for the lovely comments on the last chapter (and also the screaming and expletives haha)

Grantaire just stared at Éponine in bewilderment for a few moments then quickly looked away only to glance to Apollo and see the same surprise on his face too. Then, as if a primary reflex, they both turned their shocked gazes onto Courf. Courf, or Montparnasse, or whoever this dude was, was looking to Éponine as though she were an apparition. He seemed off kilter, his brain unable to possibly comprehend the sight before his eyes. _The Ghost of Christmas Past._

That was before something chilling happened.

The intruder's shock on seeing Éponine and clearly recognising her only lasted a few moments before a small, slow smile crept onto his features. It was a cold, calculated thing. With the coming of this smile was a universal shift in his whole demeanour. A few seconds before, bubbly and interested now the man felt like a snake coiled to attack. The way he sat seemed different, the way he wore the clothes seemed different, the way his fingers slowly drummed on the wooden table top seemed different, sinister, like the countdown to something terrible.

The paradigm shift was so palpable that Apollo, who was generally of the nature to barrel towards danger headfirst, actually recoiled in his seat in an attempt to get further from the imposter. The fact this recoil put him closer to Grantaire was incidental but Grantaire still preened a bit anyway.

Before either man had the chance to apprehend this Montparnasse person, or even think of means to, Éponine was in action. She launched herself towards him much like a wild animal, battle cry included, and grabbed him by the lapels, dragging him to his feet. She proceeded to bodily force him out of the room and, oddly, down the hall to her own room.

Grantaire had assumed she would kick him out but apparently his suffering was not to be short lived.

Surprisingly, Montparnasse put up little resistance, apparently under the false assumption he would be safer with Éponine than the two men, both of whom had sheepishly thrown themselves against the kitchen cabinets in an attempt to get out of Éponine's war path.

Alternatively, if Montparnasse thought he was being dragged to Éponine's bedroom for a session of passionate lovemaking, which in fairness could be misconstrued from her handling of him, he clearly didn't know Éponine as well as he ought to.

Montparnasse had seemed more affronted by the handling of his jacket than of himself if the way he tried to wriggle it free and brush it off was anything to go by.

Grantaire kept an ear out for the sound of anguished screaming once the door had been closed. All he could hear was lowered talking, angry words by the tone.

He turned to Apollo, who looked ashen.

"Did you show him the list?" Grantaire asked immediately with false calm. For a second it was the only question that seemed to matter, despite the thousands this incident had raised.

"No," Apollo breathed, "Do you think Éponine will tell him?"

Grantaire snorted, "God no! He'll be lucky to get his one phone call."

Nobody laughed, the kitchen strange and silent. Apollo sighed, a sad, defeated sound. "I'm sorry," he said, turning to Grantaire with a seriousness to his expression.

"For what?"

"For doubting you."

It was supposed to be a positive comment, a compliment of sorts but it felt more like a punch to the gut. Grantaire couldn't comprehend all the things the apology made him feel. He wasn't used to being held in any sort of esteem to begin with.

He shrugged with nonchalance he didn't feel, "Don't sweat it."

Apollo's crinkled expression suggested he would sweat it.

Grantaire pushed forward before he could dwell, "What was the vision?"

Apollo frowned and gripped the edge of the cabinet where in touched his back. He started, "It's hard to explain. He does know me," he nodded down the hall to where Montparnasse had disappeared, "not just because he knew things about me when we spoke today, I mean, with me that doesn't really prove anything anyway because I don't even know many things myself. The vision was of me going with him, he does know me from before, and the way things would have played out he, err, he uses, or will use, that knowledge to convince me of things but the truth is that he is, was not my ally. He just wanted me to go with him for his personal gain, well, sort of. It was a part of something bigger than that."

Grantaire stared a moment and supplied, "Was this premonition very vague by any chance?"

Apollo glared but it was short lived. His response, however, was still dry, "Yes, strangely enough it was."

Grantaire barked an even drier laugh, they both seemed flat, the room still feeling tense with the imposter just down the hall. Grantaire had questions despite this, "But he did know you from before?"

"I think he more knew of me," Apollo clarified. "He knew about my abilities."

This was pause for thought, "So, you think that's why he was here?"

Apollo turned to fully face him, "What do you mean?"

"If he knew about your abilities and he came here to trick you into going with him then he obviously had reason to. Having someone with the ability to see the future on side is quite an asset... especially if you are into covering things up for politicians."

"And my having amnesia meant I could be tricked into becoming his ally," Apollo finished for him.

"Exactly. I think he must have known of you, how he did is something we can only guess at, and on discovering you were missing set about looking for you. Your having amnesia only helps his case as it presents an opportunity,” Grantaire spewed his theory. “It doesn’t mean he wasn’t the one who tried to take your eye though, that could be how he knew you were missing in the first place.”

Apollo nodded along as Grantaire spoke, then he asked, “But why? I can’t see a motive for the eye. The abilities I have and the tricking me, yes, I get it but the eye?”

Grantaire frowned down at the scuffed table top. There was a piece missing from this puzzle, an important one, a corner piece crucial to piecing everything else together. Grantaire confessed, “I don’t know, maybe he’s crazy? Did you see the look on his face when he saw Ép?”

Apollo just repressed a shudder. Enough said.

“I think we are going to have to question him,” Apollo proposed.

“Once Éponine has finished whatever she is doing to him,” Grantaire spoke with an air of sly suspicion. “What do we need to ask?”

Apollo proceeded to rattle off a list, “How he knows about me and my abilities, if he knows about the eye and the attempted removal, what my name is,” Apollo gave Grantaire a significant look as if to say ‘this is the most important’.

Grantaire nodded with the embellishment of a knowing eye roll. He contributed, “Who Courf is?”

“Courf is obviously a name he made up,” Apollo reasoned as though Grantaire was a fool to think otherwise.

“But if he believes you to have no memory then why go to such efforts to conceal his identity. Did he think _I_ would know him?” Grantaire gestured with exaggeration, “No, he wanted you to belief he was someone else.”

“But I wouldn’t remember that someone else anyway.”

“Yes, but if you remembered things slowly and they were all jumbled up then he could have convinced you that he was an ally.”

Apollo didn’t look convinced, “Fine, maybe, but I think it was made up.”

“He showed the police woman an ID that matched the name. Why go to the trouble?”

“ _You_ didn’t see the ID though, you just took her word for it over the phone. He is corrupt, we know this. He could have bribed her,” Apollo implored with a tinge of victory already in the tone.

Grantaire stared, the aspersion was outrageous at first inspection but the more Grantaire thought about it the more it left a fowl taste in his mouth. The way Montparnasse had showed up much too quickly for it to be possible to have started the journey after the phone call. He had known where they were prior to that, Grantaire had had his suspicions and now he was sure of it.

When Apollo had first come into the library with his far-out theories, and his accusations of danger and corruption, Grantaire had written him off as fanatical. Grantaire was beginning to learn that this was the norm where Apollo had come from. All this suspicion seemed to be coming from actual experience, remembered or not, and was ingrained into Apollo from before the amnesia.

“Did you get a bad feeling from him?” Grantaire probed curiously.

Apollo looked suddenly ashamed, “In honesty, yes, but I couldn’t put my finger on it so I just assumed it was because I was angry at you for nay-saying it,” he briefly looked up remorsefully to meet Grantaire’s eyes, “Obviously once I had the vision it gave me clarity.”

Grantaire slowly nodded his understanding, there wasn’t much to say.

He boiled the kettle. It was really the only reasonable thing to do at a time like this.

Apollo loitered at his side, watching over the process of teabags and sugar restlessly.

As Grantaire finished up and was stirring the drinks, Apollo disclosed, “It is so hard to concentrate knowing the person in the next room probably has all the answers.”

“Éponine?” Grantaire joked but suddenly it wasn’t really a joke at all. “We haven’t talked about the most important question of all, which is how the fuck Éponine even knows this dude! Shit, man. My head was blown.”

Apollo remained strangely silent.

Grantaire continued with a further outburst of expletives at his shock before saying, “I mean, I know she lived round there but I mean what are the odds of her knowing him.”

Apollo looked grave.

Grantaire narrowed his gaze on the table top as he batted the idea about and resumed, “She saw his name on the list so why didn’t she just say something. She clearly recognised the name ‘cause she got all weird so why not just say. It could have helped.”

Apollo sipped his tea and murmured, “It would have at least forewarned us.”

“Yeah,” Grantaire answered absently. “Something is off.” He considered himself a moment and added more lightly, “Problem is I always seem to think something is off. It isn’t a very reliable superpower, the power of constant, undiscerning suspicion.”

Apollo chuckled a little but he seemed intensely distracted so conversation ran to ground.

They sipped their drinks and tried to figure the whole thing out, separately but together.

Once both their drinks were finished and they had both stood awkwardly for some time batting small talk between them, Apollo’s anxiety at a lack of forward momentum reached fever pitch. He practically buzzed. He rocked from ball to heel, he sat, he stood, he marched, he circled, he abruptly stopped, he sighed, he pulled on the fine strands of golden hair, then rinse and repeat. To say it was beginning to get a tad annoying was an understatement.

Eventually Grantaire lost his tenuous cool, “Oh for fuck’s sake,” he stormed down the hall and rapped sharply on Éponine’s door. Apollo flitted after him and continued his anxious vibrating beside Grantaire, an expression of intermingled relief and surprise. Grantaire knocked more urgently, _let this purgatory end_.

Finally the door was wrenched open to reveal an Éponine who was red in the face with either rage or exertion or both. Perhaps there had been vigourous lovemaking happening after all.

“What?” she demanded tactlessly.

“Apollo wants a turn of interrogating the prisoner,” Grantaire explained in a tone that passed his intended humourous and ventured into the harrowing territory.

Apollo went to object, “No, not like, well, I just-“

His bumbling attempt to separate himself from anything sinister or unethical towards the man they held captive in their apartment was interrupted by a loud, shattering crash.

Éponine looked behind her into the room, the door had only been open enough for them to see her, covert as she was.

“Shit!” She bellowed behind her before running out of view, “What the fuck do you think you’re doing?!”

The two men fought their way past the door and into the room. Grantaire would pretend it was a valiant attempt to apprehend the imposter but in truth he was nosey and wanted to see what was going on. Hence he stopped at the threshold while Apollo, who undoubtedly was being all sorts of stupid and valiant, barrelled right up to where Éponine stood surveying the damage.

The damage being that she no longer had any glass in her bedroom window.

Also, a suspicious absence of Montparnasse.

She exploded, “What the fuck do you two think you were doing? Knocking on the fucking door! Now look!” She jabbed her entire hand in the direction of the carnage.

Grantaire wanted to cower but instead he shuffled towards the gaping hole where the glass had been and peered out. What lay waiting was Éponine’s desk chair, one of executive proportions, lying upturned and glass covered in the bushes below. In the small tree that resided on the small patch of grass outside their apartment was Montparnasse, his legs dangling from his perch in casual victory. The motherfucker had actually lit a cigarette. When he met Grantaire’s gaze he gave a small, sly wave. It may as well have been a two-finger salute.

However, Montparnasse’s victory was sorely miscalculated as he seemed to be under the false impression he had been the only person present brave enough or stupid enough to make the jump.

Apollo was nothing if not brave and stupid.

Before any of the sensible people (mostly a reference to Éponine) in the room had time to prevent it, Apollo had taken the window at a run, propelled himself onto the windowsill, glass crunching under his boots and was hurtling through the air.

Grantaire thought he might have reached out and tried to drag Apollo back, either way there was no stopping the man.

They lived on the second floor for the love of God! It was a 10 foot drop to the ground, which was littered with shards of glass and a broken office chair.

Éponine shrieked but this time with worried alarm rather than anger.

Grantaire wondered if it was possible that time did actually slow in these situations because Apollo seemed to be in the air a long time. The sound Éponine made seemed to hang in the air for decades, ringing in his ears.

The uncertainty was heart wrenching.

What if he didn’t make it?

In that strange moment, suspended in time, Grantaire learnt one or two things. The most important being that he cared. He actually cared about the guy, as ridiculous, annoying and mysterious as he was. It had only been the better part of a fortnight and yet here he was, heart in his throat whirring in a worrisome rhythm. Certainly, he had acknowledged that he sort of liked Apollo and found his blatant good looks blatantly good looking but this was different.

If Apollo fell then it actually mattered to him.

A lack of Apollo wouldn’t merely constitute the end of an unsolved mystery and the loss of a pretty face. Grantaire would feel the loss in himself.

It was an unexpected realisation.

The self-reflection had to remain short lived because, thankfully, Apollo landed gracelessly amongst the branches of the tree.

Suddenly Grantaire could breathe normally again.

He only realised he had climbed onto the windowsill himself, hanging on the precipice, when Éponine was pulling him back to the bedroom floor. His hands were bloody, thick and bright and fresh, from where he had been gripping the glassy sill.

She looked at him, brown eyes wide with worry. The cuts must have looked deep.

For some reason it didn’t matter all that much to him in that moment, still too much adrenaline from his stuttering heart.

Instead he watched, transfixed with the happenings outside.

On seeing Apollo make the jump, Montparnasse, eyes like saucers, quickly scrambled from his leisurely sprawl and practically slid down the tree like a firefighter’s pole. Once reunited with the ground he set out at a sprint down the pavement towards the town centre, glancing back to check for pursuit.

However, Apollo had been a bundle of repressed nerves all afternoon and now with an opportunity for release he was full of energy. He was at ground level in seconds and was making rapid chase.

If Grantaire hadn’t been so invested in Apollo’s success he would have found the whole display funny. The two men in the tree, the look on Montparnasse’s face, the way Apollo seemed to switch from affronted and goofy to the epitome of an action hero at the drop of a hat.

Grantaire wasn’t that type of guy, certainly not, but if he were he might be inclined to swoon a little. _A lot._

Éponine was speaking, perhaps had been for a long time, “What do you think?”

“I don’t know,” Grantaire garbled distractedly, his hands were starting to hurt now the excitement was over. He raised them for inspection. They were an utter mess, the sight of them making him feel queasy.

“I think you should stay here,” she advised, regarding the hands with a worried frown. “Do you think you need an ambulance?”

“Umm, I hope not. I think they’re just badly cut,” he said hopefully. He considered her words and asked astutely, “If I’m staying here then where are you going?”

“To help Apollo,” she said as though it were obvious.

In her defence it _was_ obvious but Grantaire was just too shaken to have considered anything but his current state of bewilderment.

At the suggestion Grantaire didn’t answer, sulkily remaining silent. The truth was he wanted to go help Apollo but evidently with his gammy hands he was all but useless.

Éponine was a pretty good friend in the scheme of things; she fussed over him a bit and helped him rinse off the blood but then she left him. She had decided to use the route of the front door and the stairwell rather than the open window and the tree. _Not very Rock n’ Roll_.

It was quite insufferable being huddled over the bathroom sink rinsing blood off his painful hands while his friends were out there fighting bad guys. This must be what being the shitty sidekick felt like, or the damsel in distress. All the delusions of grandeur he’d had about being the chosen one might be slowly slipping away.

Grantaire wasn’t sure why he hadn’t put up more of a fight. It had seemed a sensible suggestion at the time for the person with severely cut hands to remain behind but now he was sitting here he wondered if he should have insisted more, or at all. It seemed as though he hadn’t managed to shake off his habitual complacency just yet.

It annoyed him.

He tried to use his phone for entertainment since the bathroom walls and the sight of himself in the mirror weren’t really doing it for him but he couldn’t bend his fingers or grip without pain and the recurrence of the bleeding.

Sitting on the edge of the bath and watching the water running a tinge of yellow it was then.

_Fucking Montparnasse._

Who did he think he was? More importantly, who did they think he was?

With every step forwards they made, the case seemed to confront them with a solid brick wall, insurmountable and inscrutable. How difficult was it to return one, poxxy dude home? Grantaire would bet money ET had less trouble than this.

The more he learnt about Apollo the more troubling the guy’s history appeared to be. There seemed to be a strong possibility that it was in fact dangerous for Apollo to return home. A selfish part of him wondered if Apollo was better off staying with him.

_Such a fool._

Apollo had to go back. Danger or not he had a life there, people who missed him, people who cared about him, people he cared about. _People who hadn’t come looking for him._ It was puzzling, if Montparnasse had found them then surely Apollo’s friends and family could. Unless of course Montparnasse had been tipped off by the police, which would have given him an undeniable advantage.

Grantaire wanted to look a couple of things up but one last pained attempt at using his phone ruled it out.

All he could do was wait in growing frustration.

***

Grantaire was woken by Éponine gently shaking him. It was strange to find himself asleep in the first place but it would seem he had rolled back into the bath and was curled up on his back like a dead wasp.

“Where’s Apollo?” Were his first raspy words as up grappled with the rim of the tub for purchase. His hands were still bleeding and it smeared over the white enamel. The inside of the tub looked like Norman Bates had paid a visit; Grantaire concluded there would forever be a stain on that bathmat. Total write-off.

Éponine met the question with something close to a concerned scowl, she said slowly, “I think we need to talk.” As she said this she passed him a damp flannel to mop at his hands. The towelling material hurt.

“What?” Grantaire was more alert in light of the words, “Has something happened to him?”

Éponine rolled her eyes but without humour or affection, she dragged out the words, “No, he’s fine.”

“What do we need to talk about then? Did he catch Montparnasse?” Grantaire was now scrabbling out of the bath; he gracelessly fell to the floor into a heaped bundle with a dull thud.

“No, Montparnasse got away,” she answered bitingly. “I need to talk to you about Apollo.”

“Well, where is he?”

“Alone,” she demanded.

“Well, why did you leave him alone, I thought-”

“Will you fucking listen?!” She cut in. “I need to speak to you alone, without Apollo, about Apollo. Capuche?”

“Err, yeah, but why?”

“Just listen for once in your fucking life,” she snapped.

He cowered in the crevice at the junction between bathtub and sink. Speaking now would only equate to a swift demise.

“I-” she faltered at the first word now the audience was captivated, albeit in terror, but she bracingly continued, “I grew up in London, as you know. I knew Montparnasse from growing up with him. He was close to my family and my parents.” She sighed before spitting out the words like ridding herself of venom, “My real surname is Thérardier, and before you go and accuse me of lying to you after seeing that note, I know, and I am actually sorry about that. I didn’t think it would matter but I should have warned you. I just thought it was a coincidence and nothing more. I didn’t want to reveal myself,” she looked away and bit the skin around her thumb nail. “The thing is they were bad people and bad parents. They were caught up in crime and I didn’t know where to turn. So I ran. I changed my name and let myself become someone new. It wasn’t safe to stay. I…”

Her words trailed off. Grantaire didn’t know if he should speak and if so, what to say.

She sighed again, more heavily this time and looked back at him. She resumed in a different tone, “I did everything I could not to leave a trail but when I saw Montparnasse, what, ten years later or whatever, I just assumed that my parents had sent him to bring me back. That’s why I dragged him away, to question him about it. But do you wanna know something weird,” she rhetorically asked, “Montparnasse was just as surprised to see me as I was him. Imagine our mutual shock. Quite the fucking picture. Thing is, Grantaire, he wasn’t looking for me at all, he was looking for Apollo. He didn’t even pretend, he couldn’t, because otherwise he would have to say he was looking for me but truth was he didn’t give a flying shit about me and apparently neither do my godforsaken parents.”

She let a silence hang between the tiles of the room.

She took up with a hard tone, “So, what I want to know is this. Why is a man directly connected to my estranged parents and their crime empire showing up and claiming to have amnesia in the only library in Britain where my best friend works?”

There was a coldness to her eyes, a strong set to her jaw. This wasn’t the Éponine who did yoga in the kitchen, this was the Éponine who grew up with criminals and dragged grown men by the lapel.

When he didn’t reply, she added, “Quite the conundrum, isn’t it?”

Grantaire responded petulantly, “What do you want me to tell you?”

“Nothing,” she said simply. “I’m just telling you the situation.”

“What are you saying though? That Apollo is allied with Montparnasse because I don’t think so since-”

“Grantaire,” she spoke with firm authority. “Be objective for five fucking seconds. I’m not saying that specifically, I’m just telling you that something is wrong here. How did Montparnasse end up here anyway?”

Grantaire grudgingly explained the police call, the too-swift arrival, his arguing with Apollo and his general suspicion. She listened without interruption, which was unprecedented, and nodded occasionally. By the end she looked somewhat mollified.

“So, the question is whether or not he knew Apollo was here prior to you going to the police station.”

“I guess,” Grantaire hedged.

She sat with her back to the bath in concentrated thought. She got a bit of his blood on the back of her t-shirt and on noticing this screwed up her face in disgust. However, it did mean she noticed his hands again.

“I think you need a doctor.”

He gazed at the hands, still oozing blood, the flannel wet and bloody. “It’s only been a couple of hours and the bleeding is slowing. I’m sure it’s fine.”

“You could need stitches,” she shifted closer to examine him, “Or could get an infection.”

“I’m not going to A&E over this,” he said resolutely.

It was at this moment insistent banging came from the front door.

“That’s him,” Éponine exclaimed with irritation.

“Montparnasse?”

“No, Apollo,” she said wearily.

Immediately Grantaire tried to clamber up, still painfully unfit and now with slippery hands. He said unnecessarily, “I’ll go let him in.”

She warned, “I told him to wait in the lobby downstairs but the dude is ridiculously impatient. It took near trickery to get him to stay put as it was.”

“So, he’s okay?”

“Sure. If stupid to all fuck counts as okay.”

Grantaire frowned at her tone, “Do you genuinely hate him?”

She looked at him appraisingly, “No, but I don’t trust him. I don’t  think we can be too careful now Montparnasse is involved.”

Grantaire nodded slowly and looked at his hands, “I’ll just have to talk to him.” He tried to get up again, he was extremely half-hearted.

“Egh,” she expelled a grunting sound. “Just stay put, you absolute invalid.” She hopped up and disappeared into the hall.

He was all too happy to remain seated and dab at a particularly weepy cut near his left thumb.

He could hear voices in the hall, hushed but harsh. Slowly the volume rose until Apollo burst into the bathroom in an animated flurry. To say Grantaire wasn’t pleased to see him would be a lie.

Touchingly, of sorts, Apollo was appalled by the state of Grantaire and apparently the entire bathroom. As Éponine followed him in, looking aggrieved, he turned on her and barked, “You said he cut his hand! Look at him.” He gestured like an owner would for their dog when pointing out the wee on the carpet, accusatory and disgusted, “Why didn’t you take him to a doctor?”

“He didn’t want to go,” she exclaimed, her face reddening with annoyance, “I’m not his keeper. Should I force him?”

Apollo looked at her with pity, “Yes, obviously.”

He turned back on Grantaire and crouched beside him, commandeering a hand for examination, he asked reproachfully “Why won’t you go to a doctor?”

“I’m fine,” Grantaire muttered, watching as the soft pale fingers carefully ghosted over his skin. So much better than his doctor, a surly man in his late-fifties.

“Clearly that’s a lie,” Apollo stated, returning the hand to Grantaire’s lap. “I’m calling Fantine.”

With that, he abruptly left the room.

Éponine leant against the sink with her arms firmly crossed, her eyes bored into Grantaire in silent allegation.

Grantaire witheringly shrugged and pleaded, “I’ll talk to him. I promise. There’s no point while he’s got a bee in his bonnet.”

“Fine,” she said before slinking out of the room, a watchful look in her expression that told Grantaire she would not be going far.

Apollo returned to the bathroom with a sense of accomplishment, “Fantine is not on shift so she is at home. She said she can look at your hands.”

“They’re fine,” Grantaire said with increasing doubtfulness, “Probably.”

“That’s ridiculous, now, let’s go,” Apollo was undeterred and began to attempt to hoist Grantaire up.

Éponine swooped in like a bird of prey, “It you’re taking him then I’m coming.” She said it as a declaration with the anticipation of argument but Apollo just nodded an agreement, unperturbed.

They successfully got Grantaire standing, bundled in a coat and out the flat. As they descended the stairs, both Apollo and Éponine tussling for the lead, Grantaire said, “It would have been easier to just toss me out the open window, truth be told.”

Neither of his care assistants looked amused at this, however, Grantaire was amused by the similarity in their expressions of disapproval.

“Also, nice jump Apollo,” Grantaire added conversationally as they reached the lobby.

Apollo looked a little pleased to hear this but Éponine shot Grantaire a look that could not have more unequivocally said ‘don’t test my patience’ if she had tried.

“What?” He asked with an open-armed shrug, “The dude was like Indiana Jones leaping for the holy grail. It deserved an honourable mention.”

Éponine muttered something too quiet to be heard as she walked to her car. As she unlocked it, she eyed Apollo guardedly before relentingly getting in the driver’s seat. Grantaire sat in the front to show solidarity but still desperately wanted to ask Apollo what happened with Montparnasse now they had a chance.

Éponine ceremoniously took the address from Apollo and set about driving. She was the safest, slowest and most attentive driver Grantaire had ever encountered and that was including his geriatric ex-driving instructor uncle. It was strangely unlike her but Grantaire suspected it stemmed from nerves.

They would be at Fantine’s by nightfall with some luck (and divine intervention).

Once they were well on their way, Apollo softly offered, “I didn’t catch him.” Like he sensed he was under trial but didn’t know how to address that, instead resorting to topics he could counter. Grantaire watched as Éponine gritted her teeth anyway.

“What happened?” Grantaire hedged.

“He got in a car and drove away,” Apollo said mournfully.

“A car?” Grantaire spluttered.

“Err yes,” Apollo said, in confusion.

Éponine seemed to have picked up on this too.

“Well, why did he have a car?” Grantaire asked as a prompt.

“For transportation,” Apollo replied. It would have seemed sassy had he not been as openly puzzled.

“And we are expected to believe he drove here from south London in, like, two hours?”

Apollo frowned, “I don’t know how long it usually takes.”

“It took us two hours on a train, there’s no way he drove in that time.”

“Maybe he rented the car.”

“So, he had time to get the train, rent a car and park in within a reasonable distance of…”

Grantaire trailed off.

“Apollo,” he asked slowly. “Did he drive here with you this afternoon from the town or was that car already there?”

“Already there,” Apollo said, showing signs of catching on, he added, “He had the keys to it. It wasn’t stolen.”

Grantaire shared a look with Éponine. Montparnasse had clearly known the location of their apartment prior to the phone call with the police station in London that morning. He had been watching them prior to this morning, for how long they couldn’t know, but Grantaire suspected it couldn’t have been too very long since Montparnasse had not known about Éponine.

“What sort of car was it?” She questioned, losing her frostiness in her quest for answers.

Apollo gawped a little in thought, “Err, black.”

Éponine looked like she would explode in fiery rage before Apollo quickly added, “But the number plate ended in PMI.”

It was the perfect remedy, like water to the flame, Éponine looked brimming with relief at this information.

Before any more could be done with this new discovery they were pulling into a pleasant side street. Apollo pointed out a detached house with a warm appearance and a sign advertising it as a guesthouse.

They pulled into the drive and tentatively got out to peer around. The front garden was like something from a landscaping catalogue despite it being winter and lacking the full array of floral possibilities. Everything was well cared for and pruned. A row of perfectly sculpted miniature evergreens lined the right hand fence.

The whole place reeked of competence and adulthood.

Before their untrained eyes could fully take in the landscaping, Apollo was opening the front door and beckoning them inside. It felt impolite to enter without a proper invite so Grantaire glanced to Éponine for guidance only to see her waltzing over the threshold. _Well, okay then_.

It was fortunate that Fantine was in the hallway having seen them arriving. At least Grantaire assumed the tall, long-haired woman greeting them was Fantine.

“Evening, Apollo. This must be Grantaire and Éponine. I’ve heard a lot,” Fantine smiled at them both. Grantaire didn’t know if he was more touched by the fact Apollo had told her about him or by the fact that she also called him Apollo. There was nothing more flattering than giving someone a name and them using it universally.

Apollo seemed flustered by her mentioning that he had discussed them and nodded anxiously. His usually pale features had a distinctly pinker hue.

“Anyway,” Fantine continued to Grantaire, sensing the lack of momentum otherwise, “Let’s take a look at those hands. Come this way.” She gestured for them to follow her down the hall and into a roomy dining room. Fantine was dressed simply but had an authoritative and professional air about her that gave her an elevated appearance.

She ushered them to sit and fetched a first aid kit without hesitation. She had a calm efficiency that put him at ease, which was something given the day they’d been having.

Éponine looked around cagily. While she looked shrewdly at the array of vases on a tidy little sideboard, Apollo caught Grantaire’s gaze and shot him a very deliberately troubled look. It was obvious he knew of Éponine’s fears, or at least her aversion to him, and wanted an audience with Grantaire without her influence.

Grantaire felt royally stuck between a rock and a hard place. However, he needed to speak with Apollo either way on Éponine’s orders. He nodded an assent and signalled that they could later. Conveniently, it would satisfy everyone involved. _Two birds, one stone. Fantine wasn’t the only one with efficiency._

Meanwhile, Fantine shouted to someone in the next room while she foraged in a first aid kit on the table top. In came a petite blonde in a bright red rockabilly style dress with a pair of comic book print tights, all topped with a curled quiff.

“Cosette, could you do me a favour and make some tea while I look at this young man’s hands,” Fantine asked. Cosette nodded sweetly and turned back the way she had come. Apollo hopped up, explaining he would tell her how everyone liked theirs. Grantaire heard him explain that Grantaire liked his black as he left; it was enough to put a small smile on his face.

Fantine pulled up a chair beside him, bringing his attention back to the matter at hand.

“Let’s have a look then,” she reached for the makeshift bandage made out of a hand towel. She removed it and examined the hands. It wasn’t long before she was clucking her tongue. “How did you do this? Apollo said on the phone that it was glass.”

“Err, yeah, glass from a broken window.”

“Hmm,” she absently nodded as she inspected the cuts further before she let out a surprisingly tuneful laugh, “I dare not ask about the why.”

“Probably safer,” Grantaire agreed.

“Did you run this under water and then wrap it?”

“Yeah,” Grantaire shrugged modestly.

She tutted and he grew a different type of unassuming, “There is still glass in a few of the cuts,” she admonished.

“Ohh, right,” he nodded like he knew what he should have done instead.

She just set about sorting out the hands with a pitying smile. She worked quickly and tidily. Éponine was peering watchfully over her shoulder but it didn’t seem to distract Fantine all that much.

“Will he need stitches?” Éponine asked with significance.

Fantine hummed, “A couple here and here,” she pointed to a section of his left hand, which had taken the brunt of the damage.

“Are you able to do that here?” Éponine questioned further.

“I wouldn’t normally but it’s on the palm and he hasn’t damaged any nerves or tendons so it will be okay. I sense this was not a hospital job for a reason?” She asked the question with a knowing and somewhat furtive look.

He stammered, “Well, I wasn’t robbing a bank or anything when it happened. I just thought it was difficult to explain to the doctors and it didn’t seem that bad,” Grantaire aimed for flippancy.

Fantine nodded and began to prepare some equipment.

Cosette and Apollo could be heard speaking distantly but intently from what was presumably the kitchen.

“Do you run the guesthouse?” Grantaire asked conversationally.

“My aunt does, but Cosette and I live here and help where we can. Cosette does all the gardening,” Fantine said it with import and pride. She knew how good the garden looked. “You should see it in the summer.”

Both Grantaire and Éponine nodded in acknowledgement of the garden’s merits.

Fantine was lovely but there was something awkward about sitting at the breakfast table of a stranger’s aunt’s guesthouse while they sewed up your stitches, which you only had because one of their houseguests jumped out a window while chasing a suspected criminal.

Sure, stranger things had happened in recent times but frankly nothing was normal any more anyway.

Grantaire covertly asked, judging Apollo to be too far away and too engrossed to hear, “Is he getting on okay here?”

Fantine’s face furrowed in remembrance of Apollo’s dilemma, she replied in soft tones, “He-” She immediately stopped in thought, glancing towards the door, before going on, “He needs to go home.”

“Is he bothersome?” Éponine interjected, distinctly lacking in tactfulness.

“No, no, not at all,” Fantine cast Éponine an affronted look, “He’s hardly here, always out looking for clues, as we put it. Cosette drives him into town if she can and we try to do research with him but we aren’t much help. It sounds like you are finding a lot of answers though,” she looked kindly to Grantaire.

“I’m trying,” he mumbled abashedly, “It’s, err, not very straight forward.”

“I know,” Fantine frowned, “I can’t understand why it could be so difficult. I’ve asked around the hospital again and again and called King’s myself but no one has very much information.” She looked again towards the door with a sad expression, “His family must be so worried.”

“Is that why he needs to go home?” Grantaire asked.

She spoke factually, “He can’t live not knowing where he comes from.”

Grantaire knew she didn’t just mean in a general sense that people needed to know where they came from, even though they inevitably do, but specifically that Apollo wouldn’t be able to cope with not knowing.

“Well, yeah,” Grantaire said, with an isolated shrug and slight pout, “It’s not in his nature to let this go, not when he is so defined by his sense of direction and self. I’m not sure, even, that he is overly driven by what he finds at the other end or whether he will like what he finds,” Grantaire was speaking without thinking, offloading his views, “He doesn’t remember what he is looking for, the specific place or people I mean, but he will find out on principle alone and, I dunno, scour the Earth until he does.”

Fantine regarded him with a fixed and watchful gaze. Slowly she nodded, “Exactly.”

A silence sat between them as Fantine started to disinfect his hands, Grantaire realised he had been so absorbed in talking about Apollo he had barely noticed her slyly remove the glass; he had only felt the baseline throb of the pain that had already been there.

Suddenly a black tea was deposited in front of him courtesy of Apollo, who apologised, “Sorry it might not be piping hot, we were talking.” He trailed off evasively and turned to Fantine, “How are his hands?”

“He just needs a few of stitches,” Fantine explained to a suddenly displeased Apollo.

He turned on Grantaire with a reproving frown, “How did you manage to cut yourself so badly?”

“Can we just talk a second about how you jumped out a fricking window this afternoon? Am I really the reckless one at this table?” Grantaire rebutted. Cosette seemed dismayed, clearly having not known this, but Fantine just looked politely amused. Before Apollo could argue Grantaire took on a faux scolding tone and added, “And there better be whisky in this tea, ‘cause I’ll be needing some Dutch Courage for my stitches.”

Apollo apparently decided to say nothing, instead scowling at the table top. However, he quickly became distracted by what Fantine was doing and then seemed annoyed by his own interest but still couldn’t look away. Meanwhile, Cosette had retrieved a bottle of whisky and surreptitiously poured a measure into the tea. She then added a straw and said, “Since your hands are out of action. Just as well the tea isn’t too hot after all.” Grantaire could have kissed her right on the mouth, right there in front of her mother, homosexuality be damned. He now loved Cosette; it was an established truth of the universe.

“This is one heck of a guesthouse,” he exclaimed, taking a joyous sip.

“Be sure to put that on TripAdvisor,” Fantine commented with a smile and a pointed finger.

Despite the good humour of their hosts, the next few minutes were distinctly uncomfortable ones. Fortunately Fantine was pro enough not to completely rely on the analgesic properties of tea and 45% whisky. She applied some sort of cream that numbed the area. And here had been Grantaire believing there was nothing alcohol couldn’t cure.

Despite this discovery he still spent the entire time blathering about alcohol, “Did you know Dutch Courage apparently comes from Bols Geneva and how the Dutch used to drink it, obviously, since it’s from Holland? It’s supposed to be really strong. Basically they drank it and it gave them courage on the battlefield so the British thought the Dutch were brave but wanted a slice of it for themselves so they invented gin. At least that’s what I heard on the grapevine. Not that it has anything to do with wine. At least not directly. Actually, did you know…”

He continued in this fashion until the stitches were finished and the bandages were on.

Fantine probably thought he was a crazy alcohol enthusiast. She wouldn’t necessarily be wrong.

Éponine was attempting to subtly ask Cosette about some of the kitchen utensils she had observed as they had passed, including but not limited to the spice rack and a flashy bread maker. Éponine’s health kick was not strictly constrained to yoga, smoothies and aggressively competitive use of a FitBit. She had developed a bit of a deep love for cooking what she dubbed ‘proper food’. Grantaire liked to eat proper food but he preferred the preparation time of toast and tins of Scottish shortbread biscuits.

Apollo was speaking, “Did the whisky help?”

Grantaire grimaced, “I dunno, I tell myself it did. The joys of the placebo effect.”

He then proceeded to explain the reference to a thoughtful Apollo, all prior bickering seeming forgotten for the time being.

“Right.” Fantine said, hoisting herself up after indulging Grantaire the time to explain, “The patient is discharged for now. If you come back next week I’ll check the stitches. Try to keep the bandages on for a couple of days and avoid heavy lifting. I know it will be impossible to not use them but do your best to not overdo it for the next couple of days.”

Grantaire stared at the carefully mummified hands and, remembering himself, asked, “How much do I owe you?”

Fantine started to laugh quite heartily as she packed away the first aid kit. She continued to laugh at length until it appeared to run its course then tangentially asked, “Are you staying for dinner?”

It was quite evident his offer had been swiftly, and if not slightly maniacally, dismissed however the additional invite to dinner seemed excessively kind.

Grantaire didn’t know if he could hack it but Éponine looked quite keen to stay and possibly even cook the meal herself using their superior supplies.

No sooner had he conceived the possibility and Éponine was suggesting just that in her most unassuming and charming tones. Somehow the group was physically radiating from the dining room and into the kitchen.

Fantine and Cosette accepted Éponine under the fold with indiscriminate haste and set her to work collecting ingredients from the indulgently stocked fridge. Conversely, both Apollo and Grantaire seemed to find themselves unceremoniously rejected from the kitchen. Grantaire was amazed at the subtlety with which one minute he was chatting in the doorway and the next he was in the hall and foisted with an antsy Apollo.

“Well,” Grantaire piped up hintingly, “Are you going to march back in there and give them a lecture on gender roles or what?”

Apollo eyed the now closed door a moment but relented to saying, “Not right now.” He proceeded to shuffle uncomfortably on the parquet floor and admitted, “They only did it to make us talk, anyway. I cook with them all the time normally.”

Grantaire’s eyebrows knitted, “Why would they want us to talk?”

“Well, Éponine does,” Apollo amended with an exasperated quirk of his lips. It was both a statement and a challenge as to whether Grantaire would deny it.

“How did you-” He sighed, “Why do I bother to ask? Yes, fine. She wanted me to talk to you.”

“I know,” Apollo said as though repeating himself for the umpteenth time. He led Grantaire down the hall and into a spacious sitting room. Some man was sitting in there reading a newspaper. He was probably a paying guest by the looks of things. Apollo growled in annoyance. “Upstairs,” he suggested, already clambering up the bottom steps.

Grantaire obligingly followed, quickly trying to piece together what he had to say to Apollo before they reached their destination. It was a precarious issue to broach and it felt like there was no right answer on how to approach it.

Apollo led him across an expansive upstairs landing where they happened across an elderly lady in nothing but a thin, silk bathrobe. “Hello, Mrs Harris,” Apollo chimed as he strolled past and the lady nodded in kind acknowledgement. Grantaire just skittered around her in the hopes of avoiding any interactions he considered too probing.

Despite this, she could still be heard calling after them, “Have a good _evening_ , boys.” However, the tone was so utterly laced with suggestion that Grantaire could do nothing but crumple in on himself and scuttle faster in an attempt at swift escape.

Apollo just called back over his shoulder, “Thanks, Mrs Harris,” as though these occurrences were quite normal. Grantaire couldn’t hide his mortification.

“What?” Apollo snipped, on noticing Grantaire’s embarrassed grimacing. He had led them into a neutrally decorated bedroom and closed the door behind them. Somehow this action made the whole thing even more humiliating, to be alone together in Apollo’s room.

“You do realise what she was suggesting?” Grantaire asked, aghast.

“Well, obviously,” Apollo said slowly. “I know I don’t remember things but I wasn’t born yesterday. I do have some grasp of language and its possible uses.”

Grantaire just gawped in disbelief that Apollo could be so blasé about it if he’d understood.

Apollo merely rolled his eye and huffed over to a desk in the corner of the room where he seated himself.

“Are those types of comments normal here?”

Apollo scoffed, “Are you suggesting I often bring random strangers to my room?”

Grantaire didn’t know if he wanted the answer to that so just said, “You didn’t seem bothered by her comment. You seem like the type to say something.”

“Say what?” Apollo gestured to emphasise how foolish he thought the suggestion and, in fact, the whole conversation. “Why are you so fixated on whether or not Mrs Harris thinks we are having sex in here or not, anyway?” 

Grantaire spluttered and his face grew such a shade of red one might worry blood vessels were leaking at the surface. “I just didn’t like that the, err, comment was made.”

The striking blue eye narrowed as its owner spied a possible flaw, “Are you uncomfortable about homosexuality?”

Grantaire was almost certain his entire airway had closed at this point for all the air it felt he possessed. He croaked, “I am both uncomfortable and gay so, I dunno, am I?”

Apollo’s expression immediately changed into something less accusatory and he seemed to shrug it off as if it were old news, “Fine then. That’s up to you if you want to make a big fuss about a comment. In answer to your question though, yes, those types of comments are normal from her. She stays here a lot and watches this dated show full of slapstick and innuendo.”

Grantaire’s brain could only function by providing him with a series of tasteless shows that he was certain would fulfil Apollo’s brief. However, Apollo seemed to be under significant duress and the diversion into this conversation had only left him even grouchier, so Grantaire wisely kept them to himself.

Apollo regarded Grantaire coolly before starting, “I already know what you want to talk to me about so I might as well get straight to the bit where I explain.”

“Did Éponine speak to you?” Grantaire asked in surprise.

Apollo waved a casual hand, “Of course not. She has barely said two words to me.” Despite his attempt to appear undaunted, Apollo was sat precariously on the office chair with a knee drawn to his chest, occasionally subconsciously picking at the seam of his jeans. It was strangely vulnerable, enough for Grantaire to sit unbidden on the edge of the bed and give the air of an intention to listen.

Apollo nodded bracingly, “Okay.” Another pick at the seam. “I knew what you wanted to say firstly because, well, I had more, no, well maybe.” He exhaled slowly in pent up annoyance at his lack of concise vocalisation, before quickly saying, “The list. The list on my arm. It’s true that that’s where I found it and, as we said before, I assume I was the one to write it. It’s also true that I don’t remember anything before I got to the hospital in London. Everything I said about my amnesia is true. The only thing is the list,” he paused significantly.

Grantaire jumped in, “You knew Montparnasse more than what the list suggested?”

“No!” Apollo squawked in both outrage and by the looks of it a degree of offense. “I don’t know him at all. I’ve never seen him before in my life.” He shifted in his chair and picked more avidly at the jeans, “The thing is there was another bullet point on the list that I didn’t show you.”

Grantaire hadn’t expected to be so full of dread. If Apollo had kept a future event from him then it must be truly awful. The dude loved talking about horrible futures and morbid prophecies. Horrific personal and worldwide tragedies were flashing through Grantaire’s over-avid imagination.

“What is going to happen?” He voiced unsteadily through the fingers he’d clasped over his mouth.

“Nothing bad.” Apollo said too quickly, hands held out placatingly. “It’s nothing like that. It’s not bad.”

“Then why didn’t you tell me?” Grantaire didn’t feel reassured.

“It was hard enough to get you to believe me without having told you this as well. You already thought I was stalking you,” Apollo laid the words out carefully.

Grantaire was disgruntled by this turn in the conversation, “What are you talking about?” It didn’t fit with the direction he had anticipated.

Apollo fished out his trusty notepad and flicked to a page at the back. He then hesitantly passed it over to Grantaire, who leant forward to take it, the bed springs creaking slightly.

He looked curiously at the page. At first he was puzzled, it was just another copy of the list Apollo had shown him previously. Then he saw the final bullet point:

  * For help find Grantaire. Brookside Library.



He reread it a couple of times, letting it sink in.

Grantaire stared at it for a bit, still not fully comprehending how it fit with what Éponine was distrustful of. It didn’t explain anything about Montparnasse in the least.

It did, however, explain why Apollo had been so insistent in Grantaire helping him.

He realised he didn’t like this. He didn’t like the information. Not because he was mistrustful of it, or even Apollo. He believed Apollo had come to him deliberately by some sort of design. He didn’t really have any reason to believe it but he had seen too much by now and he was too intertwined with this whole thing to change his way of thinking on the matter. The point was this; he didn’t _like_ it.

Everything felt insincere now and it made him want to hit something.

“I don’t believe you,” he lied.

Apollo looked bowled over by this. Grantaire realised, looking at the other man’s posture, that he had been ready for a fight, an argument with Grantaire, ready for anger, betrayal and accusations. He hadn’t been prepared for disbelief.

It made mild ire flare up in Grantaire. _You thought you were so infallible._

“I don’t believe you,” Grantaire repeated. He had aimed for defiance but it came out weaker and more doubtful than the first.

“It’s true,” Apollo said, still surprised. “This was the last point on the list. It was written in a different ink from the rest so I knew it must have been important.” He rubbed at his arm self-consciously, “I asked in the hospital if there was a Brookside library. I came in and saw your name badge,” he shrugged. “You didn’t seem to know me though, or have any answers or even want to talk to or help me. You just wanted me to leave,” Apollo looked dejected retelling this. It was quite difficult to hear the encounter from his point of view, “There I was, expecting to walk in and be ushered into a side room and told the answers but you clearly didn’t have them. So, I didn’t ask or say anything and pretended I was just asking around everywhere.”

Grantaire hadn’t suspected a thing.

“Anyway,” Apollo continued more hopefully, “I was determined that it would work out and then we started to make progress and you taught me things. I thought it must have been because you were best equipped to help, in your way.”

“You didn’t ask anyone else?” Grantaire suddenly asked, this somehow the most shocking thing here.

Apollo considered, “I did ask around for specific lines of inquiry but I didn’t walk into other places and ask people for their actual help with the case.”

“You just trusted what your arm told you?”

“What have we been doing this whole time?” Apollo motioned tentatively, “What other leads did I have? I didn’t understand the other points on the list and the one about you seemed urgent and important.”

“Was it in the same handwriting?”

“Yes, just a different pen.”

Grantaire still didn’t get it.

Apollo had trusted a strange lead even though it had told him to put all his faith in Grantaire. It was near impossible to get his head around it.

Apollo had blindly believed in him.

He wanted to reject the whole thing, scream and shout and be offended in some unspoken way. That was the child in him. Not that maturely accepting this seemed any more rational. It would seem being rational was a thing of the past.

“Okay,” he said with forced certainty. “How does this fit in with Montparnasse?”

Apollo looked deeply troubled, “Hmm. I think,” he spoke slowly, “It more explains that our meeting isn’t a coincidence. There was a reason that I had to seek _your_ help. Maybe it was because of your link to Éponine?”

Grantaire listened and appraised this. It seemed plausible, “If you had sought the help of someone else in this town they wouldn’t have had Éponine to help you with directions in that area of London or been able to wheedle out Montparnasse.”

“Yes. That’s what I was thinking about in the kitchen when Éponine was with Montparnasse,” he pouted thoughtfully, “Among other things. The problem is that it doesn’t quite fit.”

“Why not just direct you straight to Éponine?” Grantaire offered, with slight bitterness at removing himself from the equation so easily.

“Well, yes,” Apollo agreed, “But if I was directed to you by something I predicted it meant at some point I would have _known_ I would _need_ the direction.”

If Apollo had predicted that Grantaire would be able to help him then he would have known that he would need future help and hence that something would happen to him.

It seemed obvious suddenly. Why wouldn’t a guy who could see the future see an attack coming? The answer is that he would to some degree. So the real question is how he still managed to end up in this mess?

“Why not just predict the thing that would give you amnesia and stop it?”

Apollo huffed, “Grantaire, I told you that it doesn’t work like that, but essentially yes. I would have known danger was around the corner but maybe not exactly what it was.”

“But why not write something more helpful?”

Apollo looked utterly indignant, “Like what?”

“Like the name of a person who actually knew you so they could take you in and explain more easily.”

“Exactly,” Apollo exclaimed, immediately forgetting his annoyance with evidence of Grantaire’s comprehension, “Logically that is what you would do if you knew you’d have future amnesia, or write your own name or something. That would make sense. The point is that I clearly didn’t realise the problem would involve amnesia or I would have done this, perhaps I didn’t know why I had to find you at the time.”

“But it was an afterthought if it was a different pen, maybe while you were being attacked?”

Apollo made a thoughtful sound as he scratched along his jawline. He eventually offered, “I don’t know. I think in the event of being attacked you would write something of a different. More vital. I’m only guessing. All that it really explains to me is that there’s a reason I asked you for help and that it’s one that has foresight.”

Apollo then stared at Grantaire with an open expression as though he thought _Grantaire_ possessed all the answers.

 “What now?” Grantaire asked, shifting on the bed uncomfortably, causing further creaking from the mattress.

“Well, I was hoping that you would have some ideas.”

Grantaire didn’t know shit. He told Apollo as much.

“You haven’t steered me wrong so far?”

Grantaire grit out, “But I haven’t got you home yet, have I?”

Apollo glibly replied, “You have helped a lot though.”

“Look,” Grantaire said sternly, “Being told to seek my help and me now knowing about that doesn’t change anything. You can’t follow a vague hint that you _suspect_ is a prediction you once had and trust that the entire path it sets you on is a good one. You’re not being indefinitely propelled through time in the right direction. You can’t trust me to captain that ship to the right destination. You still have to made decisions on that path.”

“Essentially, I _can_ do that,” Apollo contradicted. “My having that prediction put me on this path and it will continue that way to whatever positive outcome.”

“Yeah but on more than one occasion we have managed to change your predictions with our actions. You said yourself that you can change things.”

“This is different,” Apollo assured.

“Do you realise how much sense you do _not_ make?”

Apollo’s face was pinched with the irritation one gets when being scolded for something they were right about.

Grantaire greeted the face with, “I’m right. You don’t rule how time works.”

“I understand how time works though,” Apollo said sullenly. “I know how to manipulate it.”

“Then why does bad shit keep happening?” Grantaire pointed out smugly. “Seriously, if you can manipulate shit the why did Montparnasse even manage to show up.”

“Some things are supposed to happen.”

“That’s shit and you know it. Some fate thing that people just say to explain bad things away. ‘Oh they were supposed to suffer, it was meant to be.’”

Apollo snapped, “I don’t mean suffering. No one should suffer. You’re being ridiculous. This is not the same. You’ll see. It will all come good.”

Grantaire pointed at Apollo’s eyepatch, “You nearly lost a fucking eye-”

The door sprung open revealing a troubled looking Cosette, “Sorry to interrupt,” she saw them and immediately looked even sorrier, she loitered in the doorway, afraid to approach the angry pair, “We’ve been calling up for dinner but I guess you didn’t hear.” She looked about herself restlessly then added, “Come when you’re ready.”

Then she quickly retreated.

Both men gave the other a cursory look. They both appeared to think it better to let it rest, for now.


	6. Chapter 6

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Sorry again for the wait. My only measly defence is that my sister got me wrapped up in her Kpop addiction. I can't honestly tell you why this took up so much of my freetime but she got me wrapped up in this fanfic lark to begin with so we know that either her power is great or I'm impressionable.

Dinner was surprisingly not unpleasant. Primarily, this was because the usually cranky Éponine was in an exemplary mood in light of her recent culinary experience of enlightenment. She beamed while serving food of a plentiful and healthy nature. Fantine and Cosette seemed quite content to let Éponine take all the credit, even though she didn’t necessarily claim it.

Apollo didn’t seem to care either way about the origins of the food. He ate absently as though totally indifferent to the substances in his mouth. _The folly of self-sustenance._ He was still deeply appreciative at the end, thanking the chefs profusely, but Grantaire would place significant bets that Apollo would not be able to recall the meal if asked later.

His mind was evidently elsewhere.

In truth, so was Grantaire’s to a degree but he loved food, especially food cooked for him by someone else, which prompted a deliberate savouring of the meal. Not that Éponine didn’t try new recipes on him on a biweekly basis or anything _._ You would think he was half starved by the way he ate.

Regardless of the high quality of the food and the pleasantness of the company, Grantaire insisted they had to leave while shooting Éponine hinting eye motions. She begrudgingly took the hint, after a long period of seemingly deliberate disregard, and they excused themselves as early as socially acceptable.

As they reversed off the driveway Fantine and Cosette stood backlit by the doorway, waving them off with genuine gusto. It was extremely domestic and neither Grantaire nor Éponine knew what to make of it, even Éponine who had been deeply taken with them both waved back with a degree of irony. Meanwhile Apollo stood off to the side watching Éponine’s painfully cautious reverse manoeuvre with both the cringing alarm it deserved and a contemplative frustration.

It was the look of a man with unfinished business.

***

Grantaire was not entirely looking forward to a whole day spent staking out a café with Apollo. Naturally this was because this would undoubtedly prove to be boring and probably fruitless. Nothing got Grantaire’s goat more than applying effort to something that he viewed as pointless. Grantaire was of the firm opinion that looking into Courf would be more productive but Apollo was stubbornly standing by his near-sighted view that the name was coincidental. Despite this completely valid excuse for thinking the café mission was a waste of time, the main reason he was reluctant was because he didn’t want to resume their discussion of the previous night about how changing the future actually worked.

Thankfully Apollo seemed to be of the same opinion, which was unprecedented. He didn’t mention it in the least, even in passing. He seemed to pretend that they had never talked about it at all, instead single-mindedly plotting the day’s covert activities and detailing them to Grantaire at length in a verbose fashion he would not have done otherwise. Likewise, Grantaire chose not to recount the conversation he had had with Éponine the night before in which he had had to explain about the extra bullet point and Apollo’s reason for specifically seeking his help. Éponine had been no less ruffled by this information. In truth, she was practically enraged and again vowed not to help them with the investigation, only to later burst into the bathroom whilst Grantaire was in nothing but a towel and claim that she would be looking into the PMI number plate for them.

She was too irresolute and confusing for a simple being such as Grantaire to attempt to interpret. He just thanked her with saccharine sweetness. This annoyed her and she called him an insufferable tool. He didn’t argue the point.

Grantaire explained to Apollo her willingness to help them with the plate as they sat in the aforementioned café and he attempted to add sugar to an Americano with inflexible, mummified fingers. That morning they had already slyly asked the staff about any strange visitors and been greeted with barely veiled suspicion. Grantaire had also been traipsed around neighbouring shops for clues. There had, predictably, been none and now he was completely done with the day’s mission. His hands hurt, their bandaged appearance gave a certain street-urchin air to his look and this, combined with Apollo’s eyepatch and brazen attitude, made the pair of them utterly inconspicuous and unapproachable.

It was ridiculous to think they could have been covert in any conceivable capacity. _Bloody Apollo_.

It had been a waste of a day’s annual leave and interaction with Apollo had been stilted; now to top it all off his fumbling fingers couldn’t provide him with the demerara goodness he needed.

The accumulated effects of the day had left Grantaire in a foul mood and his efforts to suppress it only seemed to increase the pressure on the inside of his skull to dangerous proportions.

Increasing his annoyance at the wasted day, if humanly possible, Apollo dismissively explained that he had already looked up the plate the night before and found nothing. He had spent the whole day being his usual determined and insufferable self and this was just the cherry on top.

“Éponine will know how to do it with only half the plate,” Grantaire grit out with a mixture of defiance and pride.

Apollo didn’t seem to rise to this, only frowned thoughtfully and wrote something in his notebook. Without an opportunity to vent Grantaire stewed a little more.

***

The following day he was back at work and oddly in a better frame of mind. Apollo was left staking out the café alone and Grantaire had sarcastically recommended that he try not to get shot.

This had been met with a resigned smile. It was enough to become the working hypothesis to Grantaire’s improved mood. _Pathetic as it was._

Additionally, being back at work left Grantaire with the opportunity to look into Courf without Apollo’s consternation and dogged certainty he was right about it being a false lead.

It wasn’t all perfect. His hands were still cumbersome and bandaged but a hammed-up phone call to his boss and he had been reduced  to ‘light duties’ and notable resentment at this after his taking a day off. On reflection, these ‘light duties’ really only excused him from interaction with encyclopaedias and medical texts of the dimensions Apollo carried in his backpack on the regular. However, any excuse to shirk even a fraction was welcome.

He began his investigation via the wonders of the web. A google search seemed to bring up a mixture of profiles and assorted nicknames featuring the name.

Not to be deterred, a Facebook search proved more prolific, of sorts. Facebook seemed to operate under the assumption that Courf was a misspelling of Court and offered an array of Courtney’s and Court as a surname.

What remained was not a Courf but a Courfeyrac.

Grantaire had a strong inclination to also scroll past this profile with nothing more than a more appraising glance and a little snort at the floweriness of the name.

He was drawn up short though.

The profile picture was a close-up shot of two men standing in a crowded field at what looked like a festival. One had messy brown hair that fell into his face and a grin that crept into a laugh. His eyes crinkled at the corners with the familiarity of happiness on his face.

But it was the other man who had caused Grantaire’s heart to crawl into his throat.

His coppery hair and face so densely freckled there was barely room for skin were immediately familiar. It was the man who had ran from Apollo in London. Grantaire was surprised his memory served him well enough to remember him after such a brief sighting but he was unmistakable.

He silently gloated at just how right he had been about this. _How do you like them apples, Apollo? Or something._

Grantaire assumed the man he recognised was Courfeyrac but if this person had known Apollo, as he suspected they had, then why had they ran? Much to his frustration Courfeyrac’s profile was private so stalking opportunities were limited. He only could see two options; add Courfeyrac as a friend or send him a message.

Grantaire dithered at length. A wrong choice could cut off the other option.

It then occurred to him that he could do no wrong. As much as he had scoffed at Apollo’s words at Fantine’s, the idea that he had somehow been selected for this job for his ability to make the right choices was deeply empowering. His path would always be the right one when it came to getting Apollo home. He was infallible, he was irrefutable, he was incapable of fucking this up. It was an unfamiliar feeling, the one of self-faith, and it made him bold and decisive. Maybe this was why he had ignored Apollo’s insistence that Courf was just a name to begin with, yet he had been right.

He opened messenger and stared at the blank text box.

Despite his momentum, he could hardly write ‘ _Hello there. Have you lost a friend?_ ’ or ‘ _Hi there. Are you the guy who ran from me in south London the other week and my friend chased you? Good times_ ’ or worst of all _‘Sup. Have you even tried to cut a dude’s eye out?’_

He didn’t even have Apollo’s real name to ask after. It was infuriating. However, it occurred to him that Apollo had spent an entire day with Montparnasse trying to convince Apollo they knew each other. Surely Montparnasse had offered him a name, false or otherwise.

He immediately messaged Apollo.

**Grantaire: Did Montparnasse tell you your name?**

Grantaire liked to cut to the chase now he was on a roll.

A reply was not instantly forthcoming so he haphazardly labelled some new books and threw them into a box off to his right for shelving. This job really was piss easy.

Eventually a reply came.

**Apollo: He said my name was Eugene. Obviously, that wasn’t my real name.**

Grantaire laughed and found that he couldn’t resist.

**Grantaire: Eugene Fitzherbert?**

There was another wait. Apollo’s texting was painful.

**Apollo: No. Eugene Duflot. Who is Eugene Fitzherbert?**

Sometimes Grantaire forgot Apollo didn’t get his references and sometimes it was all part of the fun.

**Grantaire: Dude from a film. Total babe.**

**Grantaire: Eugene sounds pretty French. Why not your real name?**

Another eternity seemed to pass. Grantaire got antsy and sent:

**Grantaire: Dude how long do you take? How did you manage to send that message at my place behind Montparnasse’s back at this rate?**

Finally a response came:

**Apollo: Why do you bother with mentioning people from films to me? Yes, sounds French but I looked it up and couldn’t find anyone with that name. In fact, there is no one in UK census with that name (I had to make quite a few phone calls). Maybe in France but I will need to make more phone calls and it took me long enough to figure it out here. Why would he have told me the truth anyway? P.S. Also, I pre-wrote that text while he was preoccupied earlier that day.**

No wonder it took the guy so long to text. Grantaire imagined Apollo as that guy who wrote coursework essays and had to do a major culling to get it down to the word count.

With regards to the information, Grantaire felt slightly perplexed that Apollo hadn’t told him about this sub-investigation. Enough so that he felt mildly secretive about his own discoveries.

**Grantaire: I bother because I am educating you, dear boy. Valid points. Good work. Did you look online for the name?**

**Apollo: Yes…. Dear boy?**

The weary sigh that would have accompanied the message was self-evident.

Grantaire decided that was all he needed to know, pocketing the phone. Basically, the information was next to no help so he, feeling daring, typed a message to Courfeyrac.

_Hello. My name is Grantaire. This is quite a strange ask but I recently met a guy who was attacked and has lost his memory. He’s trying to piece things together. I have reason to think you might have known him. We are finding it difficult to know who to trust since he doesn’t remember who attacked him so forgive any suspicion. If you have any information (or don’t) let me know either way._

He pressed send before he could chicken out and set about with the daily chore of shelving to stop himself from refreshing the messenger every three seconds.

He managed to get wrapped up in the quest for a book on birds of prey for a bespectacled teenager. His heart wasn’t really in it, not that it ever was, and he just kept rehashing his own message in his mind.

There were really only four possible outcomes.

  1. The man didn’t know Apollo and said so.
  2. The man knew Apollo and it would lead to a heartwarming reunion.
  3. The man knew Apollo and it would lead to imminent danger, deception and disaster.
  4. The man ignored the message, forever leaving some gaping void never to be filled, an itch never to be scratched.



The more Grantaire cogitated and brewed the more worried he grew that he had make a mistake. He had to keep reminding himself that he could only make the right decision but it felt less and less true. As he battled an overflowing shelf of yarn books, he couldn’t wait any more.

It was like Schrödinger’s Facebook.

He performed a bizarre power walk back to his desk and refreshed the page. There was a message and a friend request. The cat was… alive?

_Hello Grantaire. I totally understand. We feel the same. We thought something terrible had happened but then Marius said he saw him with two people. I showed him your picture and he said you were one of them. I think it might be an idea if we speak over the phone._

There was a follow up message with a phone number.

There was a hint of accusation to the message that left Grantaire indignant.

Grantaire thought it more prudent to stalk the guy on Facebook for a while than to call, so accepted the request and got to work.

The message implied that Courfeyrac was not the man they had seen in London and predictably he turned out to be the smiling friend. This still begged the question as to why this Marius had run from Apollo in babbling alarm. Grantaire wondered if Marius didn’t know Apollo but immediately concluded that was ridiculous since he clearly recognised him and had some strong feelings on seeing him. Not friendly feelings though by any means, more like abject terror.

It was all very odd.

Conversely, there was nothing in the slightest bit odd about Courfeyrac’s Facebook. It did not even remotely resemble a fake profile, if the teachings of _Catfish_ were to be trusted. Courfeyrac had over 2000 friends and hundreds of pictures, many of them tagged by friends, and featuring the same faces and locations. He posted with reasonable regularity and the account appeared to have been active for a long duration. There was chatter with other users and evidence of him attending numerous events and parties.

Grantaire pored over the pictures as again and again Apollo’s face was amongst the crowd of faces. Apollo standing smiling in a busy kitchen while a party happened around him, Apollo hunched over a laptop with two other guys crowding to view the screen, Apollo in a dark grey suit and lined up in a posed photo at some sort of black tie event. The one that most captured Grantaire’s attention was one of Apollo standing shamelessly on what looked like a huge, fixed lectern at the front of a lecture hall, facing the rows of students that extended into the foreground. He balanced there in stillness but his arms had been captured in mid-gesticulation giving a sense of constant movement.

There was no doubting that this was the same man.

Montparnasse had been right about one thing though; Apollo had not worn an eyepatch. In every shot his left eye was boldly on show, a perfect white. It appeared to be a non-issue, treated as common place as the right eye but Grantaire sensed there was no way it could always have been. It was something that had been accepted by its owner over time, something he had had to appraise and destigmatise to himself and others. Grantaire found that didn’t matter. In fact, he respected it more. Facing one’s flaws took strength, accepting oneself took bravery. Sometimes he wished he could find more of those qualities in himself.

He stared at a picture of Apollo being pulled into a hug by two guys with goofy grins one holding a beer and the other holding an ostentatious cocktail, the caption read ‘ _What would ‘chetta say?’_ Apollo looked happy in a quiet, dignified sort of way.

It was while considering the caption that Grantaire saw the tags. One of the names he recognised instantly; Joly. For a heartbeat, he thought that they had foolishly overlooked the possibility of that being Apollo’s real name, fracture be damned. However, it referred to the man with the cocktail.

Grantaire waved the cursor over Apollo’s face and the name Enjolras came up.

It seemed too easy, too convenient. Surely there was more to this than that.

The name was even more unusual than Eugene.

Grantaire stared for a long time at the name before scrolling through more and more pictures, soaking them up, finding the match in this Enjolras’ features.

He felt almost frantic.

It was the same man. Yet, it wasn’t Apollo.

It had never been more evident that he didn’t know the man in the least, not really. Apollo had been too altered by the lack of memory for Grantaire to truly know this Enjolras. The man in these pictures was a lifetime ago. Certainly, there were personal similarities that went beyond the pretty face but Grantaire didn’t feel familiar warmth to look at this Enjolras. He was alien; he was like a perfect artistic replica. The appearance was identical but the workings behind it were all different, all wrong. Yet, this unknown man was the original.

Grantaire had grown fond of _his_ Apollo’s workings.

He realised that this too was a fork in the path that time had sent him down.

He found himself wanting to cling, wanting to close the webpage and stall for a few weeks. They could sit in the library and debate, stake things out, senselessly bicker a bit more. Grantaire thought it really would be senseless.

Looking down Courfeyrac’s homepage revealed a link to a page he and his friends had created dedicated to finding Apollo and asking people to come forward with information. Grantaire confirmed his real name was Enjolras and cached that away, more than a tad amused. The page was filled with leads, discussion and concerned condolences. It was quite evident they had made a concerted effort to find him judging by the information on leads they had followed that had gone cold.

Never had it been more evident that Apollo needed to go home; he clearly had a life there. One filled with friends and purpose. He had people who missed him and he was a part of something.

Never had Grantaire felt more alone.

It was sobering to realise that if he were to go missing that Éponine, his parents and his boss would likely be the only ones that truly missed him. His boss only because it would involve advertising for a replacement.

Maybe that weird home visit customer would miss him a tad. _It was of little comfort._

Why could he not be bothered to stay in touch with people? How hard was it to pick up the phone? Friends would come and go but he would make no effort so in the end they would just go. The truth was it wasn’t even laziness, not truly. He didn’t know why. Was it a lack of attentiveness? He just told himself that he didn’t need people; he had books and video games. He could make a million friends online at the drop of a hat, isn’t that what all the kids did? Except 28 was hardly a kid anymore.

Éponine was always telling him he needed to go out and meet someone, that the perfect guy wouldn’t fall into his lap.

Except he sort of had. _Unfortunately, without the lap part_. Admittedly, he was a pushy, opinionated psychic. Not to mention he had retrograde amnesia and constantly wore an eyepatch that caused children to excitedly point and adults to look awkwardly away. He also only knew Grantaire because he thought he would get him back to his real life. So, fine, the guy wasn’t really all that perfect. So, fucking what? Grantaire didn’t want to say goodbye yet. Even if finding Apollo his way home was somehow his fucked up responsibility. He hated responsibility anyway, why change now?

He sat and sulked at his desk, trying to think of excuses for this Courfeyrac not being the real deal.

He had suspicions, true, but there were hundreds of pieces of photographic evidence suggesting the guy was friends with Apollo. Photoshop was a thing, right? How good was it? Those memes with heads haphazardly plastered onto different bodies were surely not the extent of it. Could you photoshop a person into hundreds of photos? Would you bother doing this? Surely if this Courfeyrac meant Apollo harm he would have showed up by now. Unless he sent Montparnasse to leave a breadcrumb in the hopes Grantaire would take the bait. Then, there was this Marius who ran. What was the story behind that?

Grantaire’s head hurt thinking about it all. Being in two minds about a thing was hungry work so he munched on a _Cadbury_ Square and ignored the cascade of rice crispy crumbs in place of swinging violently on his chair and kicking his legs out. He was met with a disgruntled glower from an elderly couple perusing the audiobooks by the door.

They simply didn’t understand him, he childishly concluded, shooting them a shit-eating grin. Probably thought this dilemma was some millennial bullcrap instead of the conflict between doing a scary thing because you knew it was right and doing a cowardly thing because you fancied the dude it concerned.

In light of that concise description he made his decision. There was a point where you had to decide to stop being pathetic and do the right thing even though it was difficult. He still dragged his feet, quite literally, the entire way to the stockroom to make the call.

He lingered over the new contact he had added but there was no time like the present.

It rang twice. A sunny, male voice answered, “Hello?”

“Err, hello. Is that Courfeyrac?”

There was a momentary pause before a fractionally less sunny, “Yes. Is this Grantaire?”

“Err, yeah. Is now a good time?” It was like he was fundamentally incapable of being assertive.

“Any time’s a good time for this,” Courfeyrac explained. He paused again, as though perhaps choosing his strategy. He finally asked, “You have Enjolras? Is he okay? Where is he?” Grantaire bristled a bit at the wording, at the merest suggestion Apollo was held against his will.

“If by _have_ you mean he showed up at the library I work at and demanded I help him find his identity, then yes?” Did he sound defensive enough? Probably.

“His identity?” Courfeyrac asked slowly, ignoring Grantaire’s tone entirely.

“Well, yeah. He can’t remember anything,” Grantaire trailed off, thinking this was quite self-explanatory.

He was greeted by a muffled conversation held out of earshot, then, “He doesn’t remember who he is?” There was something beneath the tone, a sense of barely restrained panic. Courfeyrac repeated, “Is he okay? Was it a head injury?”

“No head injury. He’s as fine as can be expected, really, when you wake up in hospital with no memory of who you are. Why do you think he didn’t come home? He couldn’t remember it,” Grantaire explained with a unique show of patience, the guy sounded quite worried.

More mumbling in the background.

Courfeyrac inquired, “Was the amnesia caused by his eye?”

Grantaire wasn’t sure how that was relevant, “Err, no. His eye was damaged though. How do you know that?”

Courfeyrac sighed, “He told us it would be damaged and we tried to stop him getting attacked but it happened anyway. He didn’t mention the amnesia,” he paused, and added humourlessly, “Or the fact the attack would succeed.”

Grantaire wasn’t sure he had an answer for this but it seemed quite plausible, knowing Apollo. “So, he did have the future seeing thingy before?”

Courfeyrac sounded disgruntled, “Oh, yes. He’s always had that. He predicted he would be attacked but he didn’t tell us any of this. I’m not sure he knew.”

Grantaire thought of the arm note that had directed Apollo to find him and questioned Courfeyrac’s statement. Had Apollo known and allowed himself to be attacked anyway? What would be the point?

“So, yeah, he still has that power then,” Grantaire continued benignly. “I’ve been helping him find his way back but it’s not been easy. We’ve been at it for weeks,” Grantaire wasn’t certain what to say. He realised he should have waited for Apollo before he made this call. It would have been more useful to him. Grantaire had been curious; _it’s not a punishable offense._

“How is he coping?” Courfeyrac asked into the growing silence, his voice quivered a little. “Is he there? Can I speak to him?”

“No he isn’t here, and no he’s not coping particularly well,” Grantaire said with little tact; it was the truth. “He is quite, err, tenacious about getting answers and the lack of them is taking its toll.”

“That sounds like Enjolras,” Courfeyrac said with a fond kind of concern. “When can I-“

He went to speak further, ask more questions but Grantaire realised there was something he wanted to ask.

“Why did your friend Marius run?”

Courfeyrac sounded a little miffed at the accusatory tone and the interruption. He sighed with resignation and still replied at length, “That is,” he muttered something unintelligible under his breath, “a question we have been asking ourselves. Thing is, Marius is a friend of mine from back home and he’s never met Enjolras. He is thinking of moving down here and was visiting for a week. Obviously, I haven’t stopped talking about Enjolras and looking for him. So, when Marius popped to the shops he recognised Enjolras from all the pictures,” Grantaire didn’t really want the dude’s entire life story. _Cool story, bro_. “He didn’t know you or if you were the ones to attack Enjolras so he ran.”

Courfeyrac let out a heavy sigh, “We were glad to hear he was alive and in the area but,” a huff, “it would have helped a lot if Marius hadn’t run off. For a long time, it looked as though our only chance to find him had slipped through our fingers.”

Grantaire listened quietly to the monologue, appraising whether it satisfied his suspicions. As he began to respond there was a sharp knocking on the door.

He cradled the phone away from his mouth and yelled, “Will be out in a minute! Use the touch screen if you need to.” The library had recently installed a touch screen near the entrance for visitors to search for books and make returns. It reeked of the machines taking over but it was like a shining beacon of light when Grantaire couldn’t be bothered or was, like today, on the phone in the back room.

“Grantaire!” Bellowed an all too familiar voice from beyond the door, “I know you’re speaking to Courfeyrac.” This was punctuated by a further assault on the outside of the door. Grantaire couldn’t imagine what the customers unfortunate enough to bear witness to this were thinking.

What was this dude’s issue? First he’s against the idea and now he’s trying to break down a door in order to get involved. And Grantaire wasn’t going to even bother asking how Apollo had known, already guessing the answer.

Grantaire supposed Apollo was entitled to be present, so opened the door.

Apollo burst in and hurriedly looked about the room. It was reminiscent of when a pet is finally let in from the garden and investigates everything indoors to see what they had been missing. In this case, just a storeroom and a covert phone call.

Courfeyrac could be heard saying, “Is that him? Can I speak to him?”

Grantaire ignored him and looked pointedly at Apollo, “Have you come to admit that I was right?”

Apollo glared and sighed much like a bull would before attacking a matador.

“I’ll take that as a no. But for the record, I was.”

Apollo just said, “What happened? What did he say?”

Grantaire covered the receiver, “Err, that he knows you and that you had magical eye powers before.” Grantaire paraphrased. “Oh and that guy that ran was a friend of his called Marius who thought I was your attacker or something.”

Apollo considered this for a moment and then closed the storeroom door, “Put him on loudspeaker.”

Grantaire did as he was bid.

Courfeyrac was still asking questions on a loop. Apollo cut in, “Hello, Courfeyrac. I have some questions for you.”

The notepad came out. Apollo meant business.

Grantaire presumed he wasn’t supposed to find Apollo’s game-face kinda hot but he did.

“Enjolras!” Courfeyrac exclaimed. He said to whoever was with him, “It’s him.” Then directed back to Apollo, “I’m so glad you’re okay. We thought you were –.”

Apollo cut him off yet again, Courfeyrac really did love to talk. Grantaire wondered if he was cut out for the role of wheedling out imposters. Probably not.

“Do you know Montparnasse?” Apollo asked, over what Courfeyrac had been about to say.

There was silence down the line.

“You remember Montparnasse?” Courfeyrac queried after a time, a hint of worry but perhaps hopefulness.

“No,” Apollo said bluntly. “I don’t remember anyone.”

A further silence followed and Grantaire realised that this cold truth had upset Courfeyrac. This was highlighted by another deeper voice taking over the call.

“Hello, Enjolras. You’re speaking to Combeferre,” whoever this was spoke more calmly.

“Okay,” Apollo said without notable recognition, jotting down the name on a new page he had begun. He frowned, “Is Enjolras _my_ name?”

“Yes, I understand you don’t remember.” Combeferre allowed a pause, seemingly to let the information sink in. He patiently asked, “How do you know Montparnasse?”

Apollo wrote down _Enjolras_ onto the page and regarded the word thoughtfully before shooting a look at Grantaire. He then combatively replied to Combeferre, “How do _you_ know him?”

Combeferre seemed unfazed by this and calmly detailed, “He works for the Thérardier’s. That is a politically group we were investigating, we still are. We went to university together and you started a group. We look into politicians and companies that are, well, not acting ethically.” Apollo nodded to this and Grantaire realised that he too didn’t doubt Apollo’s capacity for activism. “We have crossed paths with Montparnasse a few times, namely him trying to stop us looking too closely.”

Apollo was jotting feverishly as he spoke, “We crossed paths with him a couple of days ago. He tracked me down because I went to the police station and asked to be contacted if people were looking for me. He was looking. He told me his name was Courf.”

Apollo let that hang it the air and in the background Courfeyrac could be heard gasping and falling into a rant.

“How did you learn he was actually Montparnasse?” Combeferre continued, unruffled and as though his friend was not having a breakdown beside him.

“Grantaire’s roommate knew him.”

“Interesting,” Combeferre hummed.

“I sought Grantaire’s help based on a note I presumably left myself from before,” Apollo added, still an antagonism to his tone.

“Interesting,” Combeferre repeated with still further interest. Grantaire could guess he was forming the same ideas they had, that in some way Apollo had planned for this. “What police station?”

Apollo told him and Combeferre seemed shocked, “We’ve asked there several times and reported you missing weeks ago. No one said anything.” Combeferre made a sound that epitomised the audible expression of suspicion. “Did Montparnasse threaten you?”

“He wanted to take me with him, for me to believe we were friends,” Apollo answered. Courfeyrac could now be heard in the background expressing his outrage to a third party.

Combeferre then suggested the very theory Grantaire himself had expressed days ago, about the name _Courf_ being used in case some memory returned.

Grantaire raised his eyebrows suggestively at Apollo, which he chose to witheringly ignore.

Combeferre cleared his throat and spoke evenly, “Do you have any more questions? I understand that after this you must be on high alert so we appreciate you speaking to us so openly to begin with.” Combeferre was a born diplomat, the guy seemed to exude sense and tranquillity. Grantaire distantly wondered if they should be more suspicious but so far he hadn’t tried to push his own agenda. In fact, he had only patiently answered questions. Grantaire wondered if they were accepting the answers too willingly but he couldn’t see Combeferre’s angle.

“What happened on the night I went missing?” Apollo asked immediately.

Combeferre paused before speaking carefully, “In truth, we don’t fully know. We were hoping you would. In short, you told us you would be attacked at your flat, kidnapped and taken to an address you gave us. We took it in turns to wait with you and started looking into the address. Someone tried to break in like you had described and we stopped them, they were arrested. Problem solved, or so we thought. A few days later you were attacked again in the exact same way and they took you. Joly, Bossuet and Bahorel went to the address and found you there, which allowed you to escape but we lost you after that.”

Grantaire assumed Apollo knew shorthand by the speed he was writing. He asked, “Did Joly break his leg?”

“Yes he did,” then Combeferre paused and you could almost hear him thinking, “If you both know that and don’t remember that night it means you predicted it prior to that night. So, how do you have that information from before?”

Combeferre seemed to actually know how this psychic lark worked.

“The note I left myself from before. It was written on my arm.”

There was yet another silence on the line before Combeferre said solemnly, “If it would be okay with you, I think we should meet.”

Grantaire felt like the air had been knocked out of him, even though he’d seen it coming. It was inevitable they would want to meet him. Was it the right thing? Every decision felt crucial.

Apollo calmly leafed through some pages of his notebook and replied, “Can we call you back?”

Courfeyrac, evidently listening very close by, let out a choked gasp as though to let them hang up would sever all further correspondence. Combeferre made a placating noise and said, “Certainly. Call us back when you have decided.”

He then hung up, to the sound of Courfeyrac protesting in the background.

Apollo regarded the new entry in his notepad for a few moments while Grantaire loitered nearby, feeling strangely redundant.

Apollo abruptly asked, “What do you think?”

Grantaire wasn’t sure how to answer so he gestured for Apollo to follow him back into the library.

Apollo followed and joined him at the desk where Grantaire directed him to the open Facebook profile.

Apollo spent some time, frankly an understandably long time, reviewing this. Meanwhile Grantaire patrolled the library since being separated from the sanctuary of his chair left him with nothing better to do.

It was a good half hour before Apollo approached Grantaire, who was now riffling through Key Stage Three for _Biff and Chip_ books for an overburdened mother. Never had a singular moment made him feel so god-damned old as when he had exclaimed, “They still teach those? I think _I_ read them as a kid.” She had looked on with a worldly sympathy he realised was a form of comradery. Nothing like a reintroduction to your mortality.

“You read it? Saw the pics?” He asked Apollo once the lady was acquainted with the joy that was _The Magic Key_.

“Yes,” Apollo replied, as he wrung his hands. “It, well, it looks like me but it’s not what I asked you.”

“Huh?” Grantaire squinted in confusion as he headed back to his desk to check the site. How was he supposed to remember what Apollo had asked half hour ago, he couldn’t even remember what he walked to this end of the library for?

“I asked you what you _think_?” Apollo repeated as he traipsed behind.

Grantaire frowned at him, “Err, well, I think the evidence,” he punctuated with a point at the screen, “is compelling. Wouldn’t you agree? I mean there are questions but they don’t seem to want to kidnap you or cut out any sensory organs, so I reckon you’re onto a winner.”

Apollo didn’t even treat Grantaire’s tone with scorn when he asked, “What would you do, though?”

Grantaire gawped, “What do you mean?”

“Would you trust them?”

“What? After Montparnasse? I dunno, man, it’s difficult.” He glanced about for inspiration and on finding none, added, “I would meet them at least. They seem willing to answer questions, so you can pick their brains and use any leads if you find them untrustworthy. I mean, Montparnasse was a mistake but we learnt a lot.”

Apollo nodded with resolve, “That seems sensible. Will you come with me?”

Grantaire shuffled on the spot. Apollo seemed very sincere in his request. It amazed Grantaire that Apollo felt the need to ask, as if it wasn’t glaringly obvious that Grantaire’s compliance was now aggravatingly foreseeable. “If you want but I can’t take any time off,” Grantaire replied solemnly. _Hit him with conditions, seem unaffected._ It was the ultimate in Grantaire’s deflection tactics. It was a poor tactic.

“Okay,” Apollo said reasonably, as though he genuinely believed Grantaire cared a lick about his job. “Should I tell them we’ll meet them tomorrow night?” He considered, “At a place of our choosing.”

“How about the River Café?” Grantaire derided, with a hint of a laugh.

Apollo glared but had the good grace to follow it up with a long-suffering yet amused smile.

It left Grantaire warm all over. _So much for deflection_.

“We should meet them in London, then if they turn out weird they won’t know where to find us.”

“Okay,” Apollo nodded decidedly, “good idea.”

He ventured back into the storeroom to make the call. Grantaire thought it best to leave him to it, reuniting himself with his trusty swivel chair.

It had all given him food for thought. The profile seemed legit and so did the phone call. Naturally he was sceptical, that was sort of his thing, but Grantaire wasn’t getting alarm bells like he had for Montparnasse. Certainly, at the time it had been intermingled with an unfounded jealousy and possessiveness but he didn’t have that feeling this time. This time it felt right that Apollo should go with these people, it felt like the puzzle was solved in some capacity.

Instead of mistrust he just felt a deep gloominess.

Apollo returned and told him they were meeting Courfeyrac and Combeferre at King’s Cross Station at 8pm on Friday night.

***

Apollo was uncharacteristically fretful for the entirety of the train journey down. It was like he was on a first date except instead of concerning himself with his appearance, which was frankly already perfect by Grantaire’s estimations, he was instead obsessing over the details of who they were meeting and the plethora of questions he intended to pummel them with. Some questions were straight forward while others appeared to possess a degree of trickery to try to ascertain the legitimacy of their claim of friendship.

Grantaire had been at work all day and was exhausted. He had hoped to take a rejuvenating nap on the ride but that was not a viable option with Apollo. Not to mention Grantaire was an iota anxious that he had potentially led Apollo into a trap. However, his prevalent feeling was one of melancholy. He tried to quell it.

“What if I do know them and they know where I live? Should we go with them?” Apollo was asking, as he read from what was presumably a list of possible outcomes.

Grantaire, as had been the procedure for the last thirty minutes, answered patiently, “That depends on the living arrangements, it sounded as though you lived alone from how they were talking. Who has your keys? Do they have spares? Would you be able to get in anyway?”

Apollo seemed to think this sensible and jotted it down.

They had decided against bringing Éponine. Firstly, because she had vowed not to help them, secondly because she would have likely tried to stop them and thirdly, because the appearance of Montparnasse had sent her into a tail-spin and having been unable to trace the partial plate had left her increasingly anxious. Grantaire got the impression that the guy really was a nasty piece of work if he could upset Éponine like this.

Grantaire had dismissed her fear that Montparnasse would return as paranoia but now he reflected on it, it seemed strange for such a man to give up so easily.

Apollo continued to pepper Grantaire with questions until they reached London, where he sat quietly fidgeting with the pad for the remaining 10 minutes of the journey.

Grantaire closed his eyes and was able to drift out of consciousness for a few minutes. _Total, unadulterated bliss_.

***

They arrived at Kings Cross at 7.30pm, as Apollo had planned. He explained to a weary Grantaire in the queue at _Muffin Break_ that this was so they couldn’t be associated with the train they arrived on. Grantaire didn’t have the heart to explain that the trains arrived en masse constantly and it would have been difficult to track anyway, plus they had stopped at numerous places and there was no immediate way of knowing where they had got on. Instead he just procured a shitty takeaway cup of steaming hot heaven and sipped it reverently as Apollo picked at a croissant.

“Are you gonna ask them about the French thing?”

“Yes, I suppose, but it’s not my main question,” Apollo said as he nibbled at one end of the pastry.

“Fair.”

They wandered about the station to kill the time Apollo had allowed them.

As they passed the Platform 9¾ trolley half submerged in the wall, a crowd still around it at this time taking selfies, Apollo frowned at it and announced reprovingly, “I just don’t understand this modern art. I mean, what is that even supposed to represent?”

Grantaire snorted around his coffee and proceeded to cough his entire mouthful onto the floor in a failed attempt at suppressing his peals of laughter. He choked, and coughed, and laughed for a while in the vicinity of the subsequent puddle while Apollo and a number of bystanders looked on in utter disgust.

Never did Grantaire miss an opportunity to ooze sex appeal.

As Grantaire righted himself, dabbing at his eyes and expelling a breathless but satisfied sigh, Apollo huffily asked, “What on Earth is so funny?”

Grantaire pointed helplessly at the crowd by the wall, “It represents a scene from this really famous book series that happens at this station. It’s not modern art.”

“Well,” Apollo surveys the trolley shrewdly, “Technically it is a form of modern art. Just because its origins are based in fiction doesn’t change the way the public reacts to it or how it makes people feel.”

“I honestly think you need to at least watch the film before you can comment. Generally, it just makes me want to become a wizard.”

Apollo looks puzzled at this and eyes the trolley even more closely. Eventually he says, “okay,” but slowly as though he assumed the wizard thing is a singular peculiarity of Grantaire’s and should therefore be politely humoured.

Grantaire somehow found this reaction infinitely more amusing.

At this point, a uniformed man arrived and started to mop the evidence of Grantaire’s amusement off of the floor with a distinctly annoyed expression.

They swiftly shuffled away to avoid his scorn.

Grantaire had really wanted a picture of Apollo with the trolley. _Another time, another time._

***

They were meeting Combeferre and Courfeyrac in a gastro pub just outside the station. It was a Friday night at ten to 8 and it was busy with the London workforce, free for the weekend.

On entering to the sight of a sea of people, Apollo explained that the others were already there and sitting at a table towards the back to the left of the bar. Grantaire peered about at the crowd and concluded this was the Apollo Power speaking rather than genuine vision.

Naturally he was right.

They were slow in their approach and saw the two waiting before being seen themselves, giving them a few seconds to size them up. Grantaire absently realised that Apollo had deliberately approached from the side to afford them this, seemingly predicting the direction of the crowd and the line of sight of the others.

Courfeyrac was a dead-ringer for his pictures except instead of a sunny smile he was feverishly chewing the skin at his thumb nail while listening closely to whatever Combeferre was saying. Combeferre spoke with his hands; they cut through the air with delicate precision. Grantaire recognised him from Facebook but he seemed to possess an air of refined authority that didn’t translate into the pictures.

Apollo’s expression was calculating as he approached their table, all but presenting himself to them.

Their reactions did seem rather key.

Both stood on seeing him, Courfeyrac with excitement and Combeferre out of what appeared to be instinctive courtesy.

Courfeyrac clambered clumsily out from the bench behind the table, practically vaulting over a small group of women eating at the next table in his haste to embrace Apollo. However, on reaching him with outstretched arms and a loud, exuberant greeting he seemed to draw back. He stared at the look on Apollo’s face, at the presumably unfamiliar eyepatch and wavered in a strange hesitant dance. Grantaire realised that Apollo’s awkward and severe stance did not welcome embrace and it had clearly distressed Courfeyrac. He appeared to not know what he ought to do, caught between his own feelings and what the situation called for. Finally, Combeferre gently intervened, “Let them come and sit down.”

Courfeyrac nodded in defeat and, this time more apologetically, squeezed past the now peeved women on the next table and resumed his seat.

Apollo took the chair opposite Combeferre without a word.

Grantaire felt embarrassed at his coldness but didn’t feel he had the authority to school Apollo in this. Besides, why should he care? He didn’t know these people and there was chance Apollo didn’t either.

He took the seat opposite Courfeyrac and observed as he chewed the nail even more avidly, a watery glaze to his expression.

Combeferre cleared his throat with purpose but hesitated and sincerely confessed, “It’s good to see you. We’re so glad that you’re okay. We,” he glanced to his friend who was now looking resolutely at the table top in an attempt to compose himself, “knew this would be difficult for everyone involved but we still really appreciate you agreeing to meet us.”

Apollo nodded thoughtfully. It was like he was only just now realising how uncomfortable the situation was. He said straightforwardly, “I’m sorry I don’t remember you. It’s not personal. I don’t remember anything.”

This was absolutely zero comfort to the already upended Courfeyrac, who stared at Apollo with a look that could only be described as desolation. Grantaire was on the cusp of patting the guy’s hand but thought better of it.

Combeferre took Apollo’s comment more graciously, replying, “We understand. It can’t be easy for you. It certainly hasn’t been for us.”

Apollo nodded again, more absently now.

“How is your eye?” Combeferre asked concernedly, gesturing to the eyepatch, which neither man seemed to be able to grasp judging by the lingering looks they gave it.

“It got damaged,” Apollo said frankly. He looked at Combeferre’s worried and expectant face and added, somewhat cruelly, “Someone tried  to cut it out.”

Neither man seemed surprised, which was interesting to say the least. However, they both looked evidently appalled anyway, Courfeyrac looked positively sick.

“Joly thought it had looked that way when they came to find you.”

Apollo accepted this annoyingly reasonable explanation and jotted it into the notepad.

Combeferre, seemingly predicting a need for a turn in conversation, prompted, “I thought it would be better if we spoke in person, since you had so many questions.”

“Yes,” Apollo said with restored vigour, “I have quite a few. You answered a lot of them on the phone but obviously I have more,” he flipped open the painfully familiar notebook, “You said we all met at university?”

 _No time for pleasantries then_ , Grantaire thought as Apollo dived straight in.

“We met you there, yes. The uni was here in London and we ended up staying here and continuing what we’d started.”

“With this group I started?”

“Yes, you started it in first year so by the time we graduated it had a lot of traction.”

Grantaire was puzzled by the seemingly benign line of questioning; weren’t there more important things to worry about?

“What sort of things did we do?”

Combeferre listed a frankly astounding array of altruistic activities of the protesting, fundraising and sticking it to the man variety. Apollo noted all of them down.

“And were the Thénardiers our current project?”

“Yeah, they head up a political group called Montfermeil. Mr Thénardier is running for Mayor of London.”

Grantaire and Apollo share a look. Grantaire interjected, “I take it that it would be a bad thing if he got it?”

Combeferre nodded sagely, “It would be terrible. Especially now we have taken such a strong stance against him.”

“How do you intend to stop him?” Apollo asked and Grantaire realised this was not a rehearsed question but one of genuine interest.

The question seemed to exhaust Combeferre and he wearily answered, “Tirelessly campaigning. He is running against Valjean, who we have been supporting. The election is in two weeks’ time so it’s the final push but…”

He trailed off and it became evident that Apollo’s absence for the last few weeks had shifted the group’s priorities, having a negative impact on their campaign. It was likely exactly what Thénardier would have wanted, moving him further up the suspect list.

Apollo seemed to sense this too, with what appeared to be guilty concern, but resumed his tirade of questions.

“What about before university?”

Combeferre frowned at this and looked to Courfeyrac, who was yet to say a single word, for support that didn’t materialise. Courfeyrac was busy looking away towards the bar but Grantaire observed him stealing glances at Apollo, as though just to check he was real.

Combeferre sighed, “All we know is that you moved to London from France for university.”

“That’s it?” Grantaire blurted mockingly, and then flushed a little at his sudden involvement.

Combeferre seemed to think this reaction was actually quite reasonable, responding, “I know. That’s honestly all you ever told us.” He shrugged apologetically, “I know that seems rather suspicious in terms of us proving we know you but I’m not going to make up a story if it’s not true.”

His apparent frankness was quite redeeming.

However, Apollo wilted at this news, crestfallen, but he relented, “Okay.” Glancing back at his notes he preserved, “Do you know any more about the night I went missing?”

Combeferre steeled himself and then began, “You called me from your apartment at around midnight on that Saturday. You told me that the attack was happening again and told me to carry out Plan B.” Combeferre diverted to explain, “In the event they succeeded in taking you from the apartment we had devised a Plan B, where we went to the address you told us about to get you back. So, you told me to do that and then hung up. Obviously, that’s exactly what I did. We drove to the location as planned, and Bahorel, Bosseut and Joly were the ones to go in and get you while myself, Courf, Jehan and Feuilly waited in the car.”

“Were they armed?” Apollo asked quickly as Combeferre paused.

“The people who had taken you?”

“Only three of them went in, were they armed?”

“Err, yes,” Combeferre admitted. “So were the people that took you. Only the three went in since that’s what you told us to do.”

“And you listen to him?” Grantaire shucked a thumb in Apollo’s direction with playful ridicule ill-fitting to the magnitude of the conversation.

Combeferre seemed momentarily stunned by this, “Well, he can see the future. Obviously we listen to him since he has information we don’t.”

“So, why didn’t it work this time?” Grantaire derided.

Courfeyrac suddenly piped up, “Because they tricked us.” He then glanced at Apollo, saw that Apollo’s attention was on him and bracingly continued, “The first attack was to trick us into thinking we had stopped the attack. The second was a duplicate that mimicked the first.”

“What happened next?” Apollo was actually drawing up a timeline now.

Combeferre resumed the speaking role, “They went in to get you and Joly said there were only a handful of people there in what looked like a makeshift operating theatre,” Combeferre paused and looked at Apollo gloomily, “He said you were still conscious.”

Apollo flinched and Courfeyrac covered his face.

Combeferre powered through his evident disgust at the story he had to tell, “They interrupted it and a fight broke out. Joly tried to get you out to the car but you were delirious and tried to fight _him_. He broke his leg in the struggle and you got away. We have been looking for you since,” Combeferre punctuated the end of his story with a solemn nod.

“I broke someone’s leg?” Apollo asked, disgruntled.

“Not deliberately,” Courfeyrac said quickly and forgivingly, “He said you were hurt and confused. It wasn’t you directly, you just caused him to fall.”

Apollo smiled weakly at Courfeyrac’s words but an understanding seemed to pass between them and the air cleared minutely.

Apollo decided something at that moment and proceeded to explain to them the timeline they had managed to piece together, about the ambulance finding him and the hospital transfer. He finished at the incident with Montparnasse.

The pair listened raptly and peppered Apollo with questions. Grantaire was amazed that Apollo had dropped all the pretences he had been planning on the train and was simply opening up. He didn’t know if it was the right decision. History dictated that Apollo was wholly too trusting. He was too eager to see the good in everyone.

“So, do you think Montparnasse was behind the attack?” Courfeyrac directed at Combeferre once Apollo had finished and everyone had resorted to analysing the events.

Combeferre scratched his chin pensively, “I wouldn’t put anything past him but it doesn’t seem to fit his MO. If he wanted to stop our cause by getting rid of Enjolras then he would just kill him. Why all this scheming?”

Grantaire suggested, “Maybe he wanted Apollo to have amnesia so he could show up and get him on side?”

“Possibly, but that suggests an overarching plan beyond winning this election,” Combeferre toyed with the idea as he swirled the liquid in his glass.

Courfeyrac seemed bewildered as he asked, “Apollo?”

Grantaire paused at the odd question and then, on comprehension, pointed at Apollo himself, “I call him Apollo. ‘Cause he can see the future.” He lowered his voice teasingly, “And because he’s got the golden hair, sun-god aesthetic.”

Courfeyrac laughed and for the first time since they arrived looked like the man on his profile. He chirped, “I see your point. It’s actually quite fitting.”

Apollo seemed rather flushed and murmured, “You never mentioned that part.”

Grantaire shrugged with both innocence and embarrassment.

Thankfully, conversation about the how and why of Montparnasse’s motives resumed.

It was some time before Grantaire joined the conversation again, “What I wanna know is why they tried to cut out his eye? I mean, how does that fit?”

“Well, I suppose they thought if they had his eye they could somehow use his abilities?”

“What do you mean?” Apollo squinted in confusion.

“It’s how you see the future,” Courfeyrac said simply.

Apollo looked to Grantaire for assistance.

Fortunately, Grantaire seemed to twig, “Are you honest to God telling me that it’s the fucking eye that’s magical?”

“Well, obviously,” Combeferre reasoned. “Seeing the future is a type of sight. The eye has always been a symbol for premonition, of sorts. I assume that is why the eye has always been visibly different from a conventional eye.”

“A symbol though. How do you even know it’s my eye for sure?” Apollo didn’t seem convinced.

Combeferre and Courfeyrac shared a knowing look and Courfeyrac questioned, “Have you even looked at the eye under the eyepatch?”

“Obviously,” Apollo hissed defensively.

“But while you were actually having a premonition?”

“Well, no,” Apollo immediately confessed, deflating a little.

“Trust me,” Courfeyrac assured, “It’s your eye that is allowing you to see the future.”

Apollo went quiet for a long time as he processed this, forcing Grantaire to pick up the slack, “So, you think someone tried to cut out Apollo’s eye in order to harness his powers of foresight.”

“It would appear to be the case,” Combeferre acknowledged sorrowfully. “Joly suggested this might be the case but if what the hospital told you is to be believed, then yes, it is safe to assume that someone is trying to obtain Enjolras’ abilities.”

“Would that even work though? The eye would just be an eye, how could you use it to see the future? Seems totally pointless.”

Combeferre’s expression pinched a little at this, “I honestly wouldn’t know but in theory you could,” he paused and fixed his wording, “transplant the eye into somebody else.”

Apollo went vaguely green at this and didn’t even write anything into the pad.

“That’s fucked up,” Grantaire bluntly stated. Were people really this utterly twisted?

Courfeyrac added with disgust, “You have no idea.”

“Would Montparnasse do this?” Grantaire probed, trying to move past the idea of eyes being exchanged like Pokémon cards.

“It doesn’t seem likely. As I said, it doesn’t fit the Thénardier MO,” Combeferre explained.

“So, who did this?”

Combeferre looked helpless in the face of this question.

Apollo suddenly spoke, “It could have been anyone who knew me and what my eye can do. Was it common knowledge?”

“Not particularly,” Combeferre confessed, “But there were people beyond your friend group that knew, and clearly Montparnasse knew judging by the conversations you had, so any number of people could know if he had shared that.”

Apollo scowled at his notepad and admitted, “I need to know why this happened to me and what actually happened that night.” He then turned to Combeferre and said, “We need to have a quick word.”

The comment seemed incongruent with the rest of the conversation but Grantaire soon realised Apollo had been referring to him and not Combeferre, since he was hoisted out of his seat and dragged bodily through the crowd.

Apollo wedged them into an alcove by the toilets and turned on him with a determined expression.

“I know we don’t know yet, 100%, if we can trust them but they can help me get answers. I,” he faltered, “I don’t know if I’m actually Enjolras or not, it doesn’t resonate with me, but I have a lead with this. I have to get answers and I have to understand what happened. It’s not just about a name, is it, that’s just a label we stick on each other anyway. It was never really about that; it’s about finding out what happened to _me_. I need to know, even if this ends up being dangerous to follow it through to the end. I mean, really, what have I got to lose?” He sighed and looked away. “You’ve done what you promised to do and I don’t expect you to put yourself in danger for this.” He twiddled the string of his hoodie, “I really appreciate everything you’ve done to help me-”

“Oh shut the fuck up,” Grantaire said without heat. “You think I’m gonna leave you here with these random people?”

Apollo looked relieved.

 _In for a penny, in for a pound,_ isn’t that what they say?

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I have spent this entire story reminding myself not to write Enjolras and now I'll have to try and unlearn this...

**Author's Note:**

> I can be found dwelling on my [tumblr](https://www.tumblr.com/blog/small---but---mighty) for questions and random chit-chat


End file.
